



























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




























































































































. , 

. 














> 













































































































- 

































t 






























« i 






























































































. 


































- • 
















• ' 


«■ 


















. I 


















« * 






.. 


















> 


► 

> 







































































































































RUINS OF SAN FRANCISCO AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE OF 1906 













A LITTLE JOURNEY 


TO 

Our Western Wonderland 

(California) 


For Home and School, Intermediate and 
Upper Grades 


By 


FELIX J. KOCH, A. B. 

(Member American Geographical Society )3 
Author of “Little Journey to the Balkans,” “Austro Hungary,” 
“New England,” “The Great Southwest,” etc. 


CHICAGO 

A. FLANAGAN COMPANY 




F'skk 

K r '“ 


‘LIBRARY Of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 23 1907 

^Copyright Entry 

CLASS CL XXc, No, 

/92 7 (, 

COPY Be 


Copyright, 1907 
By A. FLANAGAN COMPANY 











A Little Journey to 

Our Western Wonderland 


T HOSE of us who made the Little Journey 
through the Great South-West, will not be con¬ 
tent, having arrived at Los Angeles, to rest there. 
Los Angeles may be called the gate-way to the real 
West, the West teeming with places of absorbing in¬ 
terest, in endless variety. 

We know that but a short journey of a couple of 
days will bring us to Mt. Wilson, from whose summit 
we may look at the sun through a mirror telescope 
over a thousand feet above the level of the sea, or we 
may peer into the wonders of the ocean’s bottom at 
Catalina, or, again, visit the Venice of the Pacific, ad¬ 
miring this copy of the famous Italian city visited on 
another Little Journey. 

Moreover, to visit Los Angeles late in January, and 
find balmy winds, flowers and clear blue skies, when 
the rest of the country is covered with ice and snow, 
will make every drop of roving blood in our veins urge 
us to wander. 

We are reminded of the poem we read somewhere at 
home and which has seemed so often to express our 
own sentiments on these trips of ours: 

Beyond the East the sun-rise, 

„ Beyond the West the sea, 

And East and West the “ wander-thirst” 

That will not let me be; 



4 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


It works in me like madness, dear, 

To bid me say good-by, 

For the seas call, and the stars call, 

And Oh, the call of the sky ! 

I know not where the white road runs, 

Nor what the blue hills are, 

But a man can have the sun for friend 
And for his guide a star 
And there’s no end of voyaging 
When once the voice is heard, 

For the river calls and the road calls, 

And Oh! the call of the bird ! 

With this in mind we proceed to “wander” through 
the “City of the Angels.” 



STREET IN LOS ANGELES 








OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


5 


THE CITY OF THE ANGELS 

We have come in on a Sunday morning, and Sunday 
is usually a bad day for sight-seeing. Stores and mu¬ 
seums are closed, theaters and places of amusement, if 
open, are packed too closely to be pleasant. But it is 
the day on which the churches are open. 

So on this warm January Sunday morning we will 
begin by going to church, in Los Angeles. We choose 
the Episcopal Pro-Cathedral, not so much in order to 
attend divine service as to see the Rev. Dyer, the man 
who is now known throughout the country as having 
exposed the greatest hoax in the world. 

THE STORY OF THE CALAVERAS SKULL 

We therefore proceed to the suburbs, where we 
meet the Rev. Dyer, and, after service, hear the story. 

All our school histories, in fact almost all histories 
now printed, state that the so-called Calaveras (Kal-a- 
vur-us) skull is the earliest known remains of Man. It 
is so termed because it was found in Calaveras County, 
California. 

The position of this skull, deep in the earth, among 
strata of rock that had been thrown into that position 
countless ages past, proved to scientists that man ex¬ 
isted on the earth aeons of years before any had hither¬ 
to reckoned on his presence. 

The finding of this skull, therefore, caused historians 
to start afresh and school children to learn quite a dif¬ 
ferent tale from that told before. 

“It all occurred back in the fifties at Angel’s Camp, 
in Calaveras County, some five hundred miles from 


6 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


here,” says Mr. Dyer. “The camp was a gold 
mining settlement of perhaps three hundred population 
at that time. 

“People were wags in California in those early days, 
and among the greatest jokers was John C. Scribner, 
druggist and proprietor of a country store and the 
agent for Wells and Fargo. 

“In the town there was a black-smith by name 
of Matson, who had started a shaft for a mine 
and who, when work was dull at the forge, would 
dig deeper and deeper into the shaft, in his search 
for gold. 

“Scribner selected Matson for his victim, and one 
day he took one of the Digger Indian skulls which then 
abounded in California, and hid it in the debris at the 
bottom of the shaft, where his friend would be sure to 
find it when he dug again. 

“Matson was an intelligent fellow and when he came 
on the skull he saw at once that it couldn’t have fallen 
there or been buried there by an aborigine, and so 
spread the news of the discovery broad-cast. 

“Bit by bit the tale spread farther and farther until 
the skull was secured by a certain Dr. Jones of Mur¬ 
phy’s camp and when the State Geologist, Professor 
Whitney, went through, he in turn secured it, and re¬ 
garded it as a proof positive of Man’s existence in what 
is known as the Paleozoic Era. 

“The Smithsonian Institute and other learned bodies, 
hearing of the discovery, sent experts to secure sam¬ 
ples of the earth from various depths in the shaft; 
and they, in their way, too, helped to perpetuate the 
hoax. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


7 


“Newspapers, however, were scarce at Angel’sCamp 
and the tricksters little dreamed that their joke had 
travelled around the world.” 

It was one thing for the press to proclaim the finding 
of the skull and quite another to get editors to correct 
the mis-statement, and so it has crept into history, and 



EPISCOPAL CHURCH, LOS ANGELES 


comparatively few persons knew the truth, until Dr. 
Dyer came forth with his facts. 

At the time of the discovery Bret Harte (Brett 
Heart), the famous California poet, wrote a poem, in 
which, in a spirit of fun, he suggested that this skull 
might be that of a Digger Indian, as later proved to 
be the case. 







8 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


STREET LIFE IN LOS ANGELES 

Both on our way to the Pro-Cathedral and again back 
to the heart of Los Angeles (Los Ann-gay-less), we will 
be interested in what we can see of the city. 

The street cars here, as everywhere in the West, have 
the center closed, like our winter cars. Both ends are 
open and have two benches set almost back to back, 
lengthwise, leaving just enough space between for the 
conductor to pass through as he collects his fares. 

The city is very modern. Splendid street-lamps, 
six w T hite globes surrounding a central one, light the 
highways at intervals. 

Barber shops, we note, have the front set in some dis¬ 
tance from the walk, allowing room for a vestibule, in 
which the boot-blacks have their stands. We see 
ladies sitting in the chairs to have their shoes cleaned, 
which they seldom do in the East. 

Stamp and coin shops and others devoted to Japan¬ 
ese curios are numerous. Tea bazaars surround a tall 
nine-story hotel, and then we enter a district of homes, 
all of which have verandas. 

Groceries in this city have a wire netting for their 
entire front, instead of a substantial wall. This netting 
has doors that can be locked, so that whether the store 
is “open” or “closed” the air can circulate constantly. 
This is, of course, possible only in a rather rainless 
region, such as this claims to be. 

Flowers greet us everywhere. In January and Feb¬ 
ruary even the poorer women wear great bunches of 
violets. We note that here, as in Salonica, visited on 
our Turkish Journey , the ladies are wont to carry 
small black parasols at all times. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


9 


Of course our jottings come as we note them, and so 
do not follow any set plan. Here, for instance, we set 
down the fact that the advertisements in the street cars 
are set up and down. Yonder, coming to a more thinly 
populated section, we note the Chinese laundry of Yick 
Wo, with great lanterns on the porch. 

We step out at Fremont Avenue to look up at Num¬ 
ber 20, the former home of Sam Temple, a carpenter, 
who was the original of the desperado, Farrar, in 
Ramona . It is in a district of the thrifty poor, with a 
Friends ’ Church at one corner and a great number of 
rather nice apartment houses all about. On the 
porches to these it is quite the custom to use the little 
kegs in which paint is shipped for hanging-baskets of 
plants. 

Ramona (Rah-mon-nah) is the great book of the 
West, as we shall soon find. There are hotels, streets, 
cars, and coaches named for it. People out here take 
as much pride in showing anything connected with 
Ramona as Chicagoans do in pointing out the examples 
of misgovernment in their city. 

PATRIOTS, ALL 

One thing in this connection we shall note times with¬ 
out number in the West, and that is the intense local 
patriotism of the people. 

Every man, woman, and child, sooner or later in 
the course of a conversation will become the eulogist 
of the West in general, and of his home city in 
particular. 

Here in Los Angeles you are led to believe that there 


10 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


can be no city quite so progressive, so beautiful, so 
clean; as Jack Appleton’s poem has it: 

There may be other cities as pretty, 

As splendid as cities can be, 

But this is the city I live in, 

And this is the city for me ! 

The citizens of Los Angeles have a right to be proud 
of their city, its beauty and progressiveness, and its 
innumerable interesting corners. 

For instance, returning to the heart of town we pass 
through a huge tunnel under an old fort which is now a 
park. There are apartment houses everywhere. Vege¬ 
tarian cafes, also, and splendid stores, the buildings 
principally of a buff or light red brick. Los Angeles 
is noted for its good streets and bicycles are every¬ 
where. We frequently see signs such as, “Boy Wanted 
With Bike,” as we pass. 

We are interested in the home of the Times; not only 
because it is the greatest newspaper west of the Rockies, 
but also because it is the property of General Otis. 
Those of us who have read “With Otis in the Philippines 1 ’ 
are in hopes we may catch a glimpse of the editor- 
warrior as we pass. 

We notice that the sunny side of the streets of Los An¬ 
geles are thronged while the shady side is almost deserted. 

Rounding a corner, we are in China-town. 

OUR FIRST CHINA-TOWN 

Now THAT the earth-quake of 1906 has wiped out the 
greater China-town of San Francisco, we find this to be 
one of the largest in the world. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


11 


China-town covers a comparatively small district. 
The buildings are chiefly frame and most of them have 
verandas on the second story, on which there are plants 
and from which hang large balloon-shaped lanterns. 
Most of these are white with floral and animal designs 
in colors. 



NEW YEAR DECORATION IN CHINA-TOWN 


We are fortunate in having happened here now, as it is 
the time of the Chinese New Year, and so there are in¬ 
numerable banners and decorations added, and the 
houses fly various Chinese flags. 

Men go about with long braids or cues, wearing loose 
black silk jackets and clogs that remind us of 
Bosnia. Stores of Oriental wares have a dragon up 
over the door. In the main portico up-stairs, lanterns 





12 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


are hung. Next door, a Jap may have his place, with the 
signs in Japanese. 

A man in a blue vest worn over a black shirt, and 
with the cue down his back, passes. 

Curio stores are everywhere. In them we shall find 
pretty Chinese tea-pots in the shape of an elephant or 
with two spouts; pictures with the frame carved, but 



CHILDREN OF CHINA-TOWN 

left unpainted; long streamers to hang from the walls; 
buttons of the iridescent cloisone, swords made of Chi¬ 
nese coins. We are tempted to empty our purses. 

Against the walls at the alley corners hang signs in 
heavy Chinese characters on gay-colored papers. Here 
is the sign of a Chinese doctor. The orange-colored 
placards with the black lettering are everywhere to be 






OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


13 


seen, as also gay balloons, flowers, and queer dolls made 
of paper flowers. 

There is a Chinese restaurant where we can taste 
chicken noodle a-la-whole-hok (whatever that may 
mean) and op-hoi-min, and chop-suey, and so on, but 
from half-past eight in the evening until midnight only. 

We note how few and far between are the women, and 
that the few children we meet are gaily attired. 

Almost within the shadow of the Chinese missions, 
we can see the men gambling in the back of stores and 
hear the shuffling of cards. But it is New Year’s time, 
which lasts from January 24 to the 30th, so who cares! 

China-town is well defined and we pass out of it into 
a foreign quarter. Thence, we take the car back to one 
of the great hotels, that we may engage a place in one of 
the autos that make a three-hour trip through the city. 
But first, we drop into a restaurant for lunch, and are 
charmed to find bouquets of callas on each table. 

SIGHT-SEEING IN AN AUTO 

The automobile gives us an opportunity of seeing 
more especially the residential part of Los Angeles. 

First, however, a street is pointed out which has been 
cut through a splendid two-story mercantile establish¬ 
ment, so that part of this is now on each side. 

This being a great tourist center, many splendid 
hotels are in course of erection. Near the Huntington 
Building, one of the most important in Los Angeles, 
there is another great structure, the property of a man 
who started here as a hot-tamale vender. People in 
in the West are very fond of the hot tamale and the 
Chili con came and other highly spiced dishes. We 


14 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


note the number of fine banks and also of saloons, quite 
a few of which latter bear a sign “Boys under 21 not 
admitted.” 

Again we are in China-town, but this time we will 
enter some of the buildings. 

THE JOSS HOUSE AT “CHINESE NEW YEAR” 

First on the itinerary is a joss-house, the outside 
plain and like any other Chinese store building. A 
straight, narrow and short flight of stairs leads into a 
room that seems one mass of Oriental fantasies, a 
chamber most difficult to describe. By and by, out 
of the chaos, we are able to note that the walls are 
covered with an orange-colored paper inscribed with 
black lettering, and that on this there hang long 
series of slips, bearing the names of contributors to 
the fund to build the temple. Each temple has its 
own joss or spirit. 

In the rear of the room is the altar. Here again fan¬ 
tastic designs support a platform which is draped at 
each side with curtains. Before the altar are placed 
tapers of punk of varying size and there are also tables 
with dishes containing various Chinese foods, every¬ 
thing from rice down to the orange and other local 
fruits, all left as New Year offerings to the idol. 

Worship is held here from four to ten in the morning. 
Before the altar a light is kept burning, illumining the 
Chinese posters hanging down close by. Against one 
wall the great Chinese standard carried in parade, 
and the tubular mandarin umbrellas used on such occa¬ 
sions, have their places. 

As we step out we hear close by the discharge of a 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


15 


great bunch of shooting crackers, fired in celebration of 
the New Year. 

Continuing on our way, past the splendid court-house 
and another large public building, with the elevator 
shaft on the outside, we note the inclined plane up 
Bunker Hill, the name recalling our New England 
Journey , and the incline those of Cincinnati. Homes 
become more numerous and by and by we are in the 
suburbs. 


RESIDENTIAL LOS ANGELES 

Handsome dwellings are everywhere, the most of them 
frame structures, with a broad porch on the ground 
floor, and short verandas before the center windows of 
the second story front. Nearly all these homes are set 
in good sized lawns, with large fruit-bearing palms at 
the front, and usually with pepper trees interspersed. 
As in New Orleans, there is generally a row of palms 
along the walk. 

Variations, however, are numerous. One place will 
have three massive flights of stairs leading up from the 
walk to meet at the lower terrace. Terraces are quite 
popular. 

Another house will be completely covered over all 
but the massive doors with a low vine. Blooming 
poinsettias or a massive honey-suckle find much favor. 

Over the city rises a great captive balloon; the bird’s- 
eye views obtained from it consists largely of the elegant 
apartment houses which are on all sides. It is a ques¬ 
tion if any one city on earth has quite so many. 

We glide through the West-lake section, where no 
house may be built costing less than ten thousand dol- 


16 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


lars. In West-lake Park we see the swans of Senator 
Clark of Montana “wintering,” and there is a small 
zoo. In the far distance oil-derricks dot the sky-line. 

Passing the home of Mr. Canfield, the oil magnate, 
now in Mexico, we learn how, only last night, a man 
came to the door demanding money of Mrs. Canfield 
and when she refused, shot her fatally. 

None of these elegant places, we are told, v/as here 
three years ago. 

In Westmoreland beyond, the mansions become 
finer still. Mission and colonial styles in great varie¬ 
ties prevail. The bungalow and the imitation of the 
old log house are also to be seen. 

At Pico (Pe-ko) Heights there are still other hand¬ 
some homes. One street lined with tall palms fasci¬ 
nates us, and a girls’ collegiate school, in a veritable 
bower of foliage, makes us envy its occupants. Hospi¬ 
tals, polytechnical schools and churches are numerous, 
and the spite fence built beside an apartment house in 
process of construction in this section seems most in¬ 
congruous. At one point we get a whiff of ocean 
breeze before returning home to the city. 

It is half-past four when we return to our hotel, where 
we have souvenir post-cards to keep us busy until 
evening, for the post-card fad is prevalent in the West. 

After tea we may have some old friend to visit and 
so stroll onto the heights in the gorgeous moon-light, 
getting a view of the sleeping city the while. 

HERE AND THERE IN THE CITY OF ANGELS 

We find a great mass of mail awaiting us at 
Los Angeles, for we make it a rule to have it for^ 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


17 


warded only to the big cities where we intend to make 
a prolonged stay. All our next morning, therefore, and 
a considerable part of the afternoon, we shall be busy 
reading and answering letters. 

When we have finished this pleasant task, we are 
quite tired and resolve to take a car ride to refresh us. 

While on the street car we hear the people speaking 
of the “white slavery” in Los Angeles, by which is 
meant the numbers of white girls supposed to be held 
virtual prisoners by the Chinese in their dens. 

The cars take us through a rather poorer part of the 
town, but even there each of the simple frame homes 
has its porch at one side. 

Vacant lots are everywhere, for the city is a paradise 
for the real estate man. Signs are everywhere stating 
that in 1910 the population will be two hundred 
and fifty thousand, and we do not doubt it in the 
least. Side streets leading off the thoroughfare look 
particularly attractive, each home has its small level 
lawn back from the road, usually containing one date- 
palm. A public school out here is a frame structure, 
with the awnings of wood built out over each window. 
At points where street-car lines cross one another, there 
will be a little cupola built on a pole, and in this a man 
sits, throwing the switches. 

Everywhere out here in South Park, people are 
sprinkling their lawns and everywhere again vacant 
lots are interspersed. Orange groves begin to appear, 
and where side streets lead off there is a pillar at each 
side and a wrought iron gate. 

Los Angeles strikes us as being far from compact and 
somehow or other we resent its straggling appearance, 


18 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Lots out here are to be had for five hundred dollars and 
upward, and we wonder that people do not buy them. 

At the end of the car line we come to Ascot (Ass-kot) 
Park, one of the great race tracks of the country. 

Having taken a peep at the course and the grand 
stand, we return by another route. 

Again we take notes of the mountains seen in the dis¬ 
tance, of the screened-in back porches to all the houses, of 
the numbers of wind mills, and of the green-houses, using 
a slat-work of wood instead of panes of glass. Bicycle 
repairers are ubiquitous, frame houses are everywhere 
and we wonder how much paint it takes a year to duly 
decorate the town. Over the shingle roofs we note 
some kites; then we are struck by a sign: “Boys’ hair¬ 
cut 15c, Saturdays 25c,” probably to prevent stern 
fathers from encroaching on the lads’ holidays. Many 
real estate offices are here, many places give trading 
stamps, and we close our note book to dismount. Little 
walnut shells with views of California attract us and we 
mail “California in a Nutshell” home to our friends. 

NIGHT IN THE CITY OF CELESTIALS 

After supper we will do China-town in the company 
of a guide, one of the many little bands of tourists 
swarming through the quarter. Owing to the New 
Year’s celebrations, hoodlums have recently invaded 
China-town, tearing the decorations and acting as van¬ 
dals generally do; and so we foreigners, being of the 
same race as these, are regarded with no friendly 
eyes. 

Everywhere on the balconies the gauze balloons are 
illumined with electricity and look bright and gay. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 19 

Here and there children are shooting fire-crackers. 

Again we visit a temple, entering by a similar narrow 
stair between the brick walls of a dark court, passing 
into a rear court and then into a room where a platform 
sustains two poles of red and black, which, in their turn, 
uphold a balcony; a double door leads off at each side. 

We knock at a panel, which a Chinaman opens, and 
we pass through two sets of double glass-doors into a 
narrow vestibule, where more stairs lead on to the next 
floor and to the joss. 

There, at the rear of the room, is the altar with its pic¬ 
ture of the deity draped with green curtains; at each 
side are gay bunches of paper primroses. Before the 
altar are tied bouquets of fresh narcissus, in honor of 
the New Year; on the table in front there are, likewise, 
offerings of grain, cakes, and candy, each in a little 
china bowl. Chrysanthemums too are here. A lower 
table holds an incense pot, below which some heavy 
metal work completes the whole. 

The walls of the room are hung with placards. In 
the center of the apartment, another altar has also fresh 
narcissus plants and little cups of food, as well as a plate 
of cakes arranged pyramid fashion. This is draped 
with heavy tinsel embroidery, while on the floor lie mats 
whereon the Celestial devotees may kneel and worship 
the idol at will. To the rear, lit by both gas and electric¬ 
ity, is a third idol; on one side are chairs draped in red. 

We return to the streets. Everywhere over the doors 
there is a mammoth beech leaf of gilt paper, upon 
which gay-colored paper primroses are set. Pretty 
light effects are produced by the lanterns. 

A doctor, we see, has red baize across his windows for 


20 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


his sign. We peer into a pool-room where the Chinamen 
are in American costume. Now and then a woman in 
black trousers, or some children in gay costumes, go by. 
In the shops we note that every store has a partition 
across it, with a door leading into the rear, where the 
storekeepers stky the greater part of the time. 

We note that the barbers shave the entire head all 
but the cue, then clean out the ears with what resembles 
a long darning needle, which they wipe off on a piece 
of paper. Then they tie the cue up in a knot. 

Here and there we see some Chinese smoking the 
long, flute-like opium pipe. Many of the other shops 
are lit with lamps. There is a restaurant thronged 
by American tourists; and then we pass up another 
flight of narrow steps, ending abruptly at a door, and 
enter a Masonic Hall, for the Chinese are real Free 
Masons. Here again there is a gay altar and before it 
the table with the bowls of offerings, while the papers 
of the lodge’s incorporation hang on the wall. 

The home of a rich dealer in merchandise, the real 
controller of China-town, is pointed out. This man 
wants more new streets through here, and, if he gets 
these, promises to put a Chinese theater in Los Angeles. 

Other narrow streets, where we should be lost without 
our guide, bring us to a little narrow hall filled with 
smoke, and a door admits to an opium den. There, at 
each side of the narrow aisle, cots of matting are set on 
which the Chinese lie, feet to the passage, in their black 
silky jackets, smoking the opium pipes. The pipes, as 
was said, are much like a flute with a porous porcelain 
cup near one end. At the smoker’s side is a tray with 
a little glass spirit lamp of red alcohol, burning away 


OTJR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


21 



beneath a bell-jar. They take a bit of the opium at the 
end of a long needle, heat it over the flame until it 
boils, then set it in the bowl of the pipe and smoke away 
to oblivion. There are perhaps a dozen of these smok¬ 
ers here. 

Continuing our progress, stores with pretty Chinese 
trinkets of all kinds, card cases of leather at seventy- 
five cents, back scratchers of bone for twenty, tea done 
up in artistic cans for thirty cents, or candied ginger 
for a nickel the parcel, are irresistible. Only bed-time 
finally brings us away. 


RAISING OSTRICHES IN CALIFORNIA 


It is a good rule of travel, if one would thoroughly 

enjoy one’s trip, to 
vary it as much as 
possible; and so, 
while we have by 
no means seen all 
that we intend see¬ 
ing in Los Angeles, 
our next expedi¬ 
tion will be into 
the suburban town 
of East Pasadena 
(Pass-eh-de-na), in 
order to visit the 
world-famous 
Ostrich Farm. 

On our way, in 
the electric cars, 
we will be busy 


FEEDING THE OSTRICH 








22 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


noting the street-life of Los Angeles. In the grocers' 
shops, for instance, we see the artichokes, large as we 
have seen them only in France. Then, we remark the 
numerous lady barbers about the city. We will catch 
a glimpse of the “Poodle Dog" restaurant, one of the 
noted “places" of the city, take in another section 
of China-town and the commission district, and then 
follow the dry bed of the Los Angeles River, which at 
best can be little more than a creek. A large biscuit 
factory, and another large plant for making con¬ 
centrated fruit syrups, interest us; and then we are 
on the famous Mission Road, the boulevard, as it 
were, of Pasadena. 

Pretty homes, with poinsettias, callas, geraniums and 
nasturtiums, to say nothing of palms, finer grounds 
with the tall palm trees both on the lawns and along the 
curb, and at one place a large Occidental College, bor¬ 
der the way to Pasadena. To all intents and purposes 
we can not tell where Los Angeles ends, and the new 
settlement begins, but the latter is in reality a separate 
town. Pretty country hills and valleys lead off until 
finally we come into another settlement and the cot¬ 
tages of Pasadena are about us. Far in the distance 
now, “Old Baldy," the great peak of the Los Angeles 
section of California, rises into view. 

Immediately we find ourselves at the entrance to the 
Ostrich Farm, which is in itself attractive. There are 
flower-beds about the door-way by which one enters 
the farm, which, in addition to being put to the prac¬ 
tical use of raising the birds for their feathers, is also a 
recognized show place. The birds for the farm were 
originally purchased by the owner at Capetown, and 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


23 


shipped over in a chartered vessel. Just before the 
ship was to sail, however, the city fathers passed a law 
forbidding the export of ostriches, and so the master 
had to slip out in the very nick of time, for today to ex¬ 
port a single ostrich from South Africa requires the 
payment of an export duty of five hundred dollars. Of 



OSTRICH SWALLOWING ORANGES, EAST PASADENA 


the thirty birds so imported all but six have died, but 
from those six the flock has grown. 

If we were especially interested in ostrich breeding 
we would make a flying trip out into the Lahabra (Lah- 
hah-brah) Valley, where the real breeding place lies, 
and where today there are several hundred ostriches, 
browsing on a hundred and twenty acre tract of alfalfa. 





24 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Out there they have about a hundred and forty chicks 
a year, breeding-time occurring in the spring. 

Usually there are fourteen eggs in the nest of the os¬ 
trich, each of these eggs weighing about three pounds. 
The eggs take about forty days to hatch, and when laid 
(as they should be) in the spring time, about two-thirds 
will yield birds. The nest itself is a mere hollow on the 
ground into which the eggs are set. The mother bird, 
being grey in color, sits upon this nest in the day time, 
the male, being black, sits on it at night; their respective 
colors thus affording the birds protection. 

If we are fortunate we may feast on ostrich eggs some 
time at Pasadena, where the big hotels make a feature 
now and then of an ostrich omelet for their guests. 

The little ostriches, which are frequently put into in¬ 
cubators on hatching, are the cutest things one can 
imagine. At the outset their feathers are brown, and 
stick out much as do the spines on a porcupine. Until 
about six months of age, birds of both sexes look alike; 
after that the plumage of male becomes darker. Great 
care must be taken with these baby birds. The temper¬ 
ature in the incubator is usually kept at 103 degrees, 
or about the degree of heat of their native land, and 
it is known that a fall of the temperature to sixty de¬ 
grees will harm the birds if they are in draught, though 
in the sun they can stand even colder climates. 

At two years of age the birds attain their full height, 
at four they are mature. At six months some of them 
stand six feet high, and it is estimated that they grow 
twelve inches a month for each of the first six months of 
their lives. 

When the birds are eight months old the first feathers 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


25 


are plucked. After that every ninth month witnesses 
a plucking. These first feathers, however, are inferior 
ones, twenty to twenty-two inches long, being cut real¬ 
ly in order to make way for the better crop to come. 
When the plucking, which is really simply cutting the 
feathers with shears, is to be done, a stocking is drawn 
over the head of the ostrich, when the silly bird, no 
longer seeing danger, imagines the foe to be gone. Care, 
however, must be taken not to get in the way of the 
powerful leg of the ostrich, which can strike a man to 
death in an instant. 

When the ostrich is fully matured, twenty to twenty- 
four plumes will be taken from each wing, and from forty 
to fifty heavy feathers extracted from the tail. Feathers 
and plumes are sorted and divided into some hundred 
and forty grades, though only about twelve of the com¬ 
moner of these are known to the layman. Ostrich feath¬ 
ers, curiously enough, are sold out here by the pound, 
bringing from four to a hundred and twenty-five dollars 
a pound. Feathers bringing a hundred and twenty-five 
dollars the pound will probably sell at two dollars a 
plume. Plumes, it is not always remembered, do not 
grow as we usually see them, but consist of three feath¬ 
ers, laid one on the other, the “quill” part of the upper 
two being scraped very thin, so that it may be sewn 
onto the stem of the lowest feather. Then the end or 
tip is curled, and the plume is ready for dyeing or for 
use in its natural color. 

The ostriches we note, as we walk among the runs, 
are all put out in pairs. When young, the little birds 
are allowed to run together indiscriminately. They 
then pair off, each selecting its mate, and these couples 


26 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



remain constant to each other for life. That there is 
money in ostrich raising may be realized from the fact 
, that adult birds have been known to pay annually an 
equivalent of ten per cent interest on eight thousand 
dollars. Average birds, however, may not yield more 
than thirty dollars a year in feathers, for the plumes 
are so light that all the feathers off one bird will not 
weigh more than a few ounces. Birds themselves are 
seldom sold, but when they are, each bird will bring 
three hundred dollars or more. 

From the yards, if we are privileged visitors, we 
will step into the building where plumes and other 
feather articles are prepared. Feathers are brought in 
off the birds in bundles, looking much like stacks of 
close-grained, dirty peacock feathers. They arc washed 


A PASADENA HOME 






OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


27 


in ordinary water by a peculiar process and then 
some of them are dyed. In order to make the plumes, 
then, the quills are cut off on the front and back by 
scraping down, as we have said, with a piece of glass, un¬ 
til very thin, when one feather is laid on the next, and 
three together go to form the quill. After this they 
are curled. Feathers, in fact, can be prepared to put 
on a hat in three hours from the time they were taken 
from the bird, but this is seldom done. Boas, too, are 
manufactured here, the feathers being treated as are 
the plumes, but they are of a heavier sort, and then cut 
and steamed in order to make them pliable for curling. 

From the factory we will again return to the ostrich 
runs, for a crowd of visitors has gathered now and an 
attendant is feeding oranges to the birds. Tourists 
never tire of watching the ostriches snap at and catch 
the golden balls, and these then gradually making their 
way down the long snake-like neck. 

BEAUTIFUL PASADENA 

From the ostrich farm we continue by car on to 
Pasadena (Pas-sa-de-na), the beautiful, a place of 
suburban homes and palms, of elegant tourist hotels, 
adapted to the balmy winter season, and of quaint 
bridges modeled after the famous Bridge of Sighs, 
which connect one side of the street with the other, 
and so join these hotels. 

Usually the tourist does not include hotels in his 
sight-seeing, feeling that he gets enough of these with¬ 
out, but in California we should be very unwise did we 
not make a complete tour of all these leading hotels, 
so magnificent and so unique, in many cases, are their 


28 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


fittings. Here at Pasadena, for instance, one hotel, a 
large Moorish structure, rises in private parks of palms, 
pepper-trees, pines and cypresses, with gardens of 
roses, geraniums and carnations. 

The hotel itself contains five hundred and fifty 
sleeping rooms, and is able to accommodate eight 
hundred guests. Often in the California “season,” 
which lasts from November 23rd to about the 10th of 
May, a hotel like this will be crowded to the utmost. 

If we ha4 begun our little journey somewhat earlier 
in the winter, and could have been at Pasadena for 
New Year’s day, we should have witnessed one of the 
most beautiful spectacles the country affords, i. e., the 
famous Pasadena rose tournament. 



THE BRIDGE AT RASADENA 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


29 


THE ROSE TOURNAMENT 

When almost all the rest of the United States is 
wrapped deep in snows, and the flowers are beautiful 
only in conservatories and perhaps in the homes of 
flower-lovers, then out here in the Golden State they 
make merry with roses, the very queens of the floral 
world. This tournament at Pasadena is distinctly a 
civic affair. There is a local Tournament Association 
to which any one can belong on paying a nominal fee, 
and its some two hundred and fifty members are the 
leading business men of Pasadena. These take in charge 
the tournament, and whether the price of flowers be 
high or low it is held each year. The revenue comes 
largely by the sale of tickets to the tourneys after the 
parades, but the parades are the great center of 
interest. 

Any form of vehicle, from a California stage coach 
to an automobile, can enter, providing only that it be 
decorated with roses. Houses, too, along the line of 
march are decorated with roses, until Pasadena is one 
wealth of flowers. As one writer put it, “There is the 
red of maidens’ cheeks and of roses, there is the white 
of fair brows and of dimpled arms and roses, there is 
the deep blue sky, to complete the national colors. 
Then, at that time of year, the days have a peculiar de¬ 
lightful freshness, and the mountains are curtained in 
velvet for back-ground, on which the yellow sun-light 
plays upon waving banners and flowery equipages, 
and on lawns dotted with flags and flowers. Sweet 
showers may have cleared the air just before, and there 
will be an ocean breeze, scented with blossom perfumes 


30 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


from the valley of San Gabriel, to add beauty to the 
whole. 

“The tournament opens with trumpet blast sending 
a thrill of joy into the heart of every spectator. Then 
there files out the procession, slowly so that all can see, 
while bannerets of red and white are flown from win¬ 
dows crowded with people. Each entry has its own 
particular admirers, so that there is continued applause 
along the line of march.” 

Especially among the wagons decorated by the dif¬ 
ferent public schools is there no end of friendly rivalry. 
Hotels and associations, too, compete, so that there will 
be any number of effects. There will be a pink and 
white flower garden on a wagon, enshrined in flowers, 
an old stage-coach of the forties, an Indian tepee of 
leaves, huge baskets of buds, living violet and lily beds, 
with sweet young school girls dressed in white in their 
midst; in short, there will be any and every manner of 
floral decoration, but in them all, roses predominate. 
So it is rightly called the tournament of roses. Even at 
the time of year when we are here, well on towards the 
end of January, we shall still hear them telling of just 
which school took the prize, and why, and of who was 
the queen of the roses, and perhaps see pictures of this 
float and that in the windows. 

THE MANSIONS OF PASADENA 

We shall now wish to see the homes of the well-to-do, 
whose riches have made all this possible. 

We will hire a carriage for the afternoon, that being 
the best available means. We will make our way then 
at once to the Orange Grove Avenue district, for which 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


31 


the city is famous. Almost at once we are out of the 
“city,” by which term the commercial and business part 
is usually understood, and in residential Pasadena, 
the beautiful. Here, too, the streets are fringed with 
pepper-trees, and lined along the curbs with palms, 
and behind the walks there are quite generally pretty 
box-hedges. 

The names of the people residing here are called off 
by rote by our driver. There is the large handsome 
home of Merritt, the millionaire. Next to it is that of 
the Woodburys, a delightful old white frame house. 
A bit farther on lives Sprague, of Sprague and Warner, 
the Chicago wholesale merchants. This house is built 
in old English style, and has green lawns rising in ter- 



AN ESTATE AT PASADENA 





32 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


races around it. Faller, the Los Angeles banker, has 
likewise a beautiful home, recognized from the avenue 
by its yellow turrets; and so it goes on and on and on, 
seemingly without end. 

The variety of styles to be seen in these places is al¬ 
most incredible. It reminds those of us who made the 
Little Journey to New England of Magnolia or New¬ 
port, and those who are to make The Little Journey 
to the Middle States , of the fine homes we shall see at 
Elberon and along the Jersey coast. Some are heavy 
in style, others are simpler, but practically all are of 
frame construction. We remark one house which 
has a curious indented center, this indenture serv¬ 
ing to form a great porch, supported by four yellow 
pillars at each side, these being joined at the top by 
heavy beams of wood. In the vicinity of the pretty 
homes of the packer, Cudahy, and of Warner, of Sprague 
and Warner, an attractive kindergarten building 
claims our attention. 

But now young pepper-trees and palms and box- 
hedges begin to hide the places from the road. Many 
of the houses are rambling, and there are dark cozy 
cottages completely covered over with ivy. On the 
heights we see a mansion, built much in the style of an 
English castle; but sheltering, instead of an English 
nobleman, one of the Standard Oil barons. 

As we pass outside the limits of Pasadena we are 
shown the magnificent estate of Sam Ellerton, the cat¬ 
tle king of Chicago, also the simple little frame home of 
Mrs. Garfield; and, across the street from it, the home 
of Mrs. Childs, wife of the famous editor of the Phila¬ 
delphia “Public Ledger.” 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


33 


Autos are everywhere as we turn down Orange Grove 
Avenue to see the home of a daughter of John Rocke¬ 
feller. The place, which is now for sale, is practically 
hidden from our view by shrubbery. 

Among the endless number of fine places we must 
not fail to see the home of Mr. Busch of Anheuser- 
Busch fame. Behind the house is seen his private 
park. This park is just a simple, basin-shaped 
lawn, very green, close shorn, that descends in billows 
to a row of terraces, one of which has a neat bed of 
kohlias, and then, at the bottom of this “cup-,” an 
equally simple bed of cacti. This lawn, for so it 
may be correctly termed, is so soft, green and 
beautiful, so simple that we gaze at it long and 
admiringly. 

We next take a peep at the home of “Bob” Bur¬ 
dette, whose accounts of the trials of a boy, told from 
the lecture platform, have so often delighted us, and 
then at the former home of the publisher McNally. 
After that we are driven out along the Arroya (Ah-roy' 
yah) Terrace, where we can overlook the vast valley, 
the former bed of a river wide and lovely. Beyond we 
can discern the observatory on Mt. Lowe, and on Mt. 
Wilson, still higher, another observatory is visible. 
Then, skirting the grounds of another millionaire’s 
estate, we see the ivied cottage in which Helen Hunt 
Jackson finished her novel “Ramona.” 

Returning to the heart of Pasadena, eye and brain 
cry out for a rest, and we gladly take the traction 
back to Los Angeles, where we wait only to refresh the 
inner man and to write up our journals before seeking 
our welcome beds. 


34 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


THE LARGEST PIGEON-FARM IN THE WORLD 

For our next morning in the “City of the Angels” we 
have planned a visit to the largest pigeon farm in the 
world. To get there we take the Carvanza (Kar- 
vahn'zah) car line, which gives us an opportunity of 
seeing the rather pretty Elysian Park, its slope covered 



MAMMOTH PIGEON RANCH 


with beautiful flowers, and of crossing the Los Angeles 
River, now a dry water course making its way among 
high hills. 

The pigeon farm we find to be one of the most 
beautiful sights we have ever met with on our travels. 
The cotes are built at the foot of a lofty scrub-covered 
hill. These are really a series of wooden tables, three in 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


35 


a set, on each of which six tiers of cotes are placed. In 
these tiers there are seven pairs of holes apiece for the 
birds, fourteen therefore for a tier, eighty-four to each 
of two sides of a table, one hundred and sixty-eight on 
both sides, and five hundred and four to each tri-table 
arrangement. Across the top, running in the opposite 
direction, are three other tiers, six pairs of holes each in 
the lower roof and four pairs on the others swelling the 
total to five hundred and sixty-eight in all for every 
three-table arrangement. 

In and out and round about these are the birds. 
Most numerous are the pure white pigeons, with pink 
bills and pinker feet, and black glossy eyes surrounded 
by a yellow circle. Other birds have the head of black, 
with iridescent feathers that change from black to pur¬ 
ple and then turn from purple to black again. Still 
others have a white head with a black spot at the eyes 
and a splash of black on the breast, others again 
are a medley of white and black. 

From this multitude of birds there proceeds a per¬ 
petual cooing, like the whirl of a mill. 

One likes to linger and watch them, as they eye the 
stranger. Then of a sudden some one bird takes 
fright and his warning note causes them all to rise and 
be off like snow-flakes in a storm, snow-flakes falling 
upward instead of down 

There are perhaps sixty thousand pigeons here, and 
most of them have paired off for life. Some of the 
birds lay all the year round except in the fall, when they 
“lay off,” as do chickens, for the moulting. There 
are two eggs to the nest and these take about eighteen 
days to hatch. It is interesting to make a comparison 


36 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


with the ostrich egg we saw at East Pasadena. The 
adult pigeons feed their little ones as long as they are 
permitted to do so. But the squabs are taken when 
about three weeks old, and killed for the market, the 
little birds at that age bringing from two to three dol¬ 
lars a dozen. 

It requires about sixty bushels of grain a day to sup¬ 
ply the wants of the pigeon farm, or, as they call it 
here, the pigeon ranch. 

OIL CITY IN MINIATURE 

From the pigeon farm, the largest today in the coun¬ 
try, we go by street car cityward once again in order to 
visit the miniature Oil City. This is a district almost 
in the heart of Los Angeles, where oil was struck, a 
boom occurred and people built, or permitted to be 
built on royalties, derricks in their front grounds and 
back-yards and in fact in every possible place. 

This was about eight years ago, and while oil was 
found, it was not in such quantities as to prove the ex¬ 
pected bonanza. Now the wells produce just about 
enough oil to pay for pumping, but they give to the 
city its suburb of derricks, a thing unique in the West. 

THE CONEY ISLAND OF THE PACIFIC 

Tiring of city and city life, we will now take our first 
view of the Pacific and also of the delights of the sum¬ 
mer cities on its shores. First and foremost of these 
is Santa Monica (San-tah Mon-i-ka), the “Coney Island 
of the Pacific.” 

To get there we take one of the traction cars entering 
Los Angeles. The ride, for the most part through 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


37 



AT SANTA MONICA 

rolling country, isnot particularly attractive, but it is 
made more so by a boy who distributes samples of 
lemon drops en route , in the expectation of course of 
shortly selling bags of the same. 

A number of little cottages, summer or rather winter 
homes, border the road by which we enter the city, 
and then beyond we see the great ocean, the largest 
in the world. We cannot pass it by without giving 
it a glance, though we have opportunity for but a 
fleeting one. 

THE FIRST VIEW OF THE PACIFIC 

Our first impression is of its beauty. Possibly be¬ 
cause it is so much more pacific than that other ocean, 
the Atlantic; the water seems bluer than we remember 
ever to have seen the Atlantic. The white ripples are all 




38 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


gentle and playful. There are benches under a row of 
trees some little distance back from the shore, and here 
we sit to meditate and listen to the breakers. 

We think of the lands far across, China, Japan and 
the rest of the Orient. To sail west to reach the east 
—that longing now fills our souls. 

As we have come in the morning and as the afternoon 
is the time for the crowds at Santa Monica, we do not find 
the place as lively as the New Jersey resorts, and we can 
make a tour of it at our ease. There is a palm drive, 
which we follow to the innumerable bathing establish¬ 
ments. The sand, however, is irresistible, and pretty 
soon we are walking up the beach, ankle deep in it. 
Here and there a flat blue pebble or stone lies on the 
sand; shells are not numerous. 

Landward we can see the great hotels and the cot¬ 
tages, the streets sloping up to the two or three 
main avenues which run parallel with the ocean. 
Practically everywhere there are pretty, simple cot¬ 
tages, so that the whole seems very much like a replica 
of Asbury. We find even the waffle-houses and the 
tin-type booths and the board-walk along the cheaper 
hotels. On the ocean there are more wild ducks, and on 
the beach we find a little seaweed with small air balls 
to explode, such as we found along the Atlantic on our 
New England Little Journey. Boys are bathing in 
numbers now, girls stroll about the beach in sunbon- 
nets, grown-ups are preparing for their dip. 

There is a large bath-house built out on a pier, hav¬ 
ing a hundred and twenty-nine rooms on each side of 
the pier. One side is for men and the other for women, 
and we resolve to indulge in a swim ourselves. As 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


39 


high-tide extends from 1:35 to 7:29 P. M., we 
shall have to wait in order to bathe at the best 
time, and so we join another coterie who are fishing from 
the end of the pier. Later we sit for a while on the 
sand, beneath one of the Japanese umbrellas which are 
such features of this beach, and then go for a stroll 
beside the water. 

OCEAN PARK A SECOND ASBURY 

By and by we are beyond the limits of Santa Monica 
and in Ocean Park, practically a suburb of the first, 
but reminding us even more by its cottages of Asbury. 
Here is a toboggan slide out into the sea, which we shall 
want to try, and then the souvenir stands and the 
fruit booths, the soft-drink venders and the like, not 
to mention the Casino, will all exert their fascinations 
upon us. 


THE SHELL INDUSTRY OF THE PACIFIC 

There is one booth in particular in which we 
want to linger; it is that in which shells are sold. With 
us in the Middle West and East the shell is perhaps 
used as an ash-receiver or to stand before the grate and 
for little else, but out west there are many persons who 
pride themselves on collections of shells. Not only 
that, but the makers of the little shell jewel cases and 
the like must all be supplied. So there are men and 
women who go out to gather shells—the men princi¬ 
pally Japs and Chinese. 

The abalone (a-ba-lo'nee) of course is coveted more 
than any other. This we ourselves shall find in pro¬ 
fusion near Monterey. The abalone is the large half- 


40 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


shell with the brilliantly iridescent interior that is so 
often seen in homes and bazaars; it is to be found 
on the w^est coast of California wherever there are 
rocks, as it is attached to the lower side of the 
boulders. Since the abalones have been getting scarcer 
the government has protected them, and one may take 
only those over fifteen inches in circumference in the 
green, blue and red shells, and those from six to seven 
and three-quarters in the black. 

Not alone for the shell, but for the meat itself do the 
fishermen search for the abalone. This mussel is 
much like a clam, but for shipment is usually dried and 
then resembles nothing so much as a bunch of dry, 
thick cloth, or a dry sponge minus the usual holes. 
Housed inside its one shell, this mussel has a powerful 
suction, like a fly’s foot, which holds the shell to the 
rocks, so that it can be pried off only with a crowbar. 
Usually, therefore, the abalones are taken at low tide 
when the men can get under the rocks and pry them off. 
At other times three or four fishermen go out in a boat 
and dive sometimes eighty feet deep to get them. 

The meaty part being scooped out, for sun drying, 
or else for the cannery at San Pedro (which puts them 
up for Chinese export), the shells are sold to curio deal¬ 
ers, at twenty to a hundred dollars a ton. The finest 
variety is the blue, then the green and the black, the 
latter noted for its pearl. All manner of novelties are 
ground from abalone by means of carborundum-wheels 
and sharp pieces of metal. The “finishing” of an aver¬ 
age shell takes perhaps twenty minutes and it will sell 
for fifty cents. 

There are innumerable other rare shells to be had in 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


41 


this shop; the circummula carpentonno (sir-kum-mull- 
lah kar-pen-tun-no), the rarest shell of the Pacific, a lit¬ 
tle thing three inches in length, a specimen of which 
will bring sixty dollars; the plum-shaped roseate 
bracopodus (brack-o-po-dus) that is equipped with 
a regular stem, and many others. 

From the shell store we make our way to a res¬ 
taurant near the surf, where sea-bass is served, to in¬ 
dulge in an ocean luncheon. After our swim, in the 
afternoon, the spell of the sea upon us, we loiter in the 
sand, sauntering hither and thither, up to the bounds 
of the new amusement resort, Venice, enjoying our 
holiday thoroughly. 

In the evening we sup at one of the fine hotels of 
Los Angeles to get a taste of their fare and their service. 
There are oysters, as is usual out here in the West, 
then consomme with crackers, broiled fish and potatoes 
and olives, with which a California sparkling wine is 
served. After that we have duck, with egg plant 
and asparagus, a wine jelly served in regulation wine¬ 
glasses, and assorted cakes and coffee. 

BY BURRO UP MT. WILSON 

That there is no lack of variety in California sight¬ 
seeing this week’s itinerary will assure us. From the 
sea level at Santa Monica, we are destined to climb 
to the mountain peaks in our ascent of Mt. Wilson, 
stay over night among the clouds, and on our next re¬ 
turn to the level of Old Ocean make what is practically 
a submarine outing to look at the sea-bottom. 

An excursion up Mt. Wilson such as we plan is a 
trip not generally made by the tourist, who prefers the 


42 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



comfort of Mt. Lowe to the greater beauties of Wilson. 
We repair by street car once again to Pasadena. As 
we have made this trip before, we purchase from one 
of the news-dealers the papers of our home city. 
These news-dealers’ carts with the leading dailies from 


CORRAL OF MULES FOR ASCENT OF MT. WILSON 

all over the country are a feature of street life in the 
California cities. As the ride out toward Sierra Madre 
is not particularly attractive, we can read our papers 
with a clear conscience. 

Arrived at the end of the line, we mount the burros 
to climb Mt. Wilson. Grown-up people ride on the 
little beasts, unless very heavy, when they are 
required to hire a mule. As the mule knows the way 
and there is but one trail, we shall not need to bother 







OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 43 

with guides. Very likely we shall meet travelers 
going afoot up the mountain, and shall keep them 
company, giving them the use of our animals occa¬ 
sionally that we may “stretch our legs” by walking. 
Those of us who made the Little Journey to the Balkans 


HOW WE ASCEND 

will constantly be reminded of parts of that trip on 
this ride. 

Unlike the Balkan burros, however, these donkeys or 
burros of ours want to loaf all the way, and not that 
alone, but to nibble the green leaves of the shrubbery, 
and we are forced frequently to employ a little 
whip. Then they have a bad habit of ambling most 
carelessly along dizzy ledges, so that we rather prefer 
walking to risking ourselves on their backs, even though 




44 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


we might cling to a queer iron wheel at the end 
of a rod with which the saddle is provided for this 
purpose. 

When we are not in the rather stunted pin-oak for¬ 
ests or treading over parterres of resurrection-vine, 
and listening to bird-songs and the babble of a brook, 
we are enjoying vistas of the great Pasadena Valley, 
with its square, olive-hued orange groves and its fertile 
meadows stretching to other mountains. 

Now and then too we meet some traveler coming 
down from above, who jokes with us about the ride. 
It was a quarter to eleven when we left the cars; it will 
be half-past one before we reach Orchard Camp, a little 
lunching-station and half-way house on the trail. Here 
and there humor, if not beauty, is added to the trip in 
the guise of signs painted by some wag, on the rocks 
just at the most difficult places, such as “Oh, joy,” 
and “I wish I were an angel.” 

A CAMP IN THE SIERRA MADRES 

This half-way house gives us an experience of a typical 
camp in the upper Sierra Madres (Se-air'rah Mah'dres). 
It is just a small, unpainted shingle shack consisting of 
a single room; outside is a summer-house and there are 
also some bottles. The camp is in charge of a young 
man in corduroy trousers, blue shirt and heavy sus¬ 
penders, who stays here the year round, though often 
for days not a soul goes by. 

This young man, like so many others out here in the 
heart of the Sierra Madres, is a trapper. During the 
colder months of February and March, when at this 
elevation (3250 feet) the snow lies deep, he may trap 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


45 


deer, foxes and wildcat, to say nothing of coons and 
badgers—sometimes, though rarely, even a mountain 
lion. 

In the summer his solitude is often broken. Moun¬ 
tain-lovers hire tents and raise them all about his soli¬ 
tary cabin, or come here for supplies when camping out 
in the mountains, so that life in the camp is varied 
enough to be endurable. We certainly enjoy the cof¬ 
fee and sandwiches and the wild cherry phosphate that 
is served us, in spite of the fact that it has all had to 
be carried up by donkey. 

SIX THOUSAND FEET ABOVE THE PACIFIC 

From this point, the trail becomes very steep, the for¬ 
ests, of an oak whose leaves resemble holly, are very 
dense. When we are able to catch an occasional bird’s- 
eye view, it is over vast expanses. 

Instead of making the direct ascent of one peak, as 
when we began the ascent of Mt. Wilson we supposed 
we should do, we find that in fact we are to traverse 
the heart of the Sierras, range over range, till we 
reach that final mountain, and then climb on and 
up to its summit. In these silent forests, where only 
the chirp of the birds breaks the silence, we occasion¬ 
ally come upon some pack train of six mules, the lead¬ 
ing animal bearing a bell, and are reminded of the road 
from Rjeka to Banjaluka of our Balkan Little Journey , 
for the scene is almost identical. 

When we come out on a camp which is known as 
Santa Anita Heights, we have that sense of being at an 
immense height, under the eaves of the world as it 
were, which Himalayan travelers experience. 


46 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



SOLAR OBSERVATORY, MT. WILSON 

The sun is beginning to sink, and we note the reflec¬ 
tion of the sunset on the eastern horizon as though 
Old Sol were really sinking there, whereas as a matter 
of fact he is still almost midway between zenith and 
sky-line. This is a phenomenon seldom encountered 
by the traveler. 

When we at last safely reach the summit of Mt. Wil¬ 
son, the hotel, a delightful little tavern, and some cot¬ 
tages are disclosed, among tall weather-beaten pines. 
The hotel is really no more than a chalet cottage, sit¬ 
ting-room, dining-room and kitchen. We wonder where 
we are to sleep. 

By and by, after again appeasing our hunger, we are 
led to the cottages. These are of unpainted shingles, 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


47 


and resemble the chalet of a Swiss homestead; they 
consist of just one room apiece. Each cottage is part 
of a circle that encloses the peak, so that all of them, 
from their little front porches, have that gorgeous view 
of the valleys. And here, on the mountain-top, we 
are to spend the night. 

AN OBSERVATORY LIKE NOAH 7 S ARK 

We deposit our belongings and refresh ourselves with 
a washing which our long mule ride has made doubly 
necessary, and then stroll through the forest, on to 
another bluff of the mountain-top. Here, visible from 
afar, is located what is perhaps the most curious 
observatory in the world. 

The structure is of canvas, so as to admit the air 
and have the temperature inside the same as that 
without. The canvas is snowy white and built in the 
shape of an ark. A commanding site has been selected 
for it, and from below and in fact from wherever 
seen it recalls at once Noah’s home stranded on the 
top of Mt. Ararat. 

This observatory, which is endowed by Carnegie, is 
unique in that it has no telescope, as we usually 
understand that term. Instead there is a series of 
finely polished mirrors, each of which as it catches the 
light from the object under investigation and reflects 
it to the next mirror in the series, enlarges it, just as we 
have had our own images enlarged or reduced by con¬ 
vex and concave mirrors. It is the third of the mirrors 
in particular which does the magnifying, throwing the 
enlarged image upon a screen, where it can readily 
be studied by the aid of a pocket magnifying-glass. 


48 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 

The tent in which this third mirror stands is built 
upon a track, so that it can be slid nearer to or farther 
from the building which houses the other two, and 
the little canvas shed where star-study is pursued. 

While we are perhaps not sufficiently advanced in 
the science of optics, let alone astronomy, to under- 



OUR HOUSE ON MT. WILSON 

stand all that the kind director explains to the rare 
visitor who chances to get inside the place, we can jot 
down the fact that it takes about two months for two 
men to finish such a mirror as these, so fine is the sur¬ 
face. The polishing is done with jeweler’s rouge on 
pads of chamois skin. Even when finished and 
mounted here, the mirrors are burnished over again 







OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 49 

every tenth day. The glass of these mirrors is four 
inches thick and is set upon a silvered surface. 

As evening comes on, we leave the observatory. We 
are enchanted with our surroundings; as we stand on 
the platform high out over the valley, behind us rise 
the tall pines of the forest. At our side is the ark, like 
some mighty specter. Below, other somber forests 
roll to the valley, which in turn extends far off to the 
sea. We can even see from our vantage point a ship 
away out on the Pacific. The stars are peeping out, 
the moon appears, and not since those starry nights on 
the Mediterranean of which we had a taste on our 
Little Journey to Austria Hungary have we enjoyed 
an evening so much. 

Nor do the delights of this excursion end here. 

AN OLD-FASHIONED EVENING 

After supper all gather about a great log fire burning 
beneath an old-fashioned chimney, such as we have 
not encountered since we left New England. Two 
Yankees from New England who are present tell stories 
of Barnum, another guest pops corn for all, and while 
we copy our day’s notes we enjoy the situation 
thoroughly. Then by invitation we make our way back 
to the observatory to see the moon through the tele¬ 
scope. Although the latter is intended primarily for 
solar work, the moon too can be observed and is 
certainly a splendid sight as now viewed, its craters 
and cones and valleys all made distinct. 

And in the moonlight, now, the valley is filled with 
new beauties, not the least of which is the distant 
illuminated city. 


50 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Regretfully we leave the spot at last for bed, bed in 
our own little house among the tops of the singing 
pines and beside the window where that same view 
over mountain slopes and vales expands. 

A NEARER VIEW OF THE SUN 

The next morning we return to the observatory for a 
nearer view of the sun than any we have ever had be¬ 
fore. The best time for such observation begins about 
half an hour before sunrise, and then extends for two 
or three hours, or as long as the definition, i. e. the dis¬ 
tinctness, of the object holds good. The program for 
the observatory is to make photos of the sun with the 
spedro-heliograph, and to do this images of the sun are 
arranged on an instrument known as the spectroscope , 
which is so arranged that the pictures are taken in any 
one single sort of light. The theory of this is a rather 
technical one, but so wonderful that it repays our closest 
attention while the gentlemen in charge make it clear. 

The light they show us passes through a narrow slit 
and then through a glass known as an objective, which 
renders the different rays parallel. From there the 
bunch of light-shafts, as we might consider them, falls 
on one of the great mirrors of the observatory. 

From these it is sent to another mirror and thence 
by means of two great prisms, which form a spectrum, 
these much-traveled rays pass on through a second 
objective and through a second slit (that allows one to 
select any particular line in the spectrum), and that 
means that photographs can be taken which will show 
the distribution of vapors over the sun’s surface, cor¬ 
responding to calcium, hydrogen, iron, magnesium and 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


51 


the like. These photos are the size of the image, that 
is, about six inches and a half square. 

The negatives are then developed, and we are shown 
a number of these glass plates, the round image much 
like a great fog spot in the center with a sort of crusty, 
skin-like effect due to clouds passing over the surface. 



MIRROR AT MT. WILSON OBSERVATORY 


These photographs are almost more than instanta¬ 
neous, they are taken in just one one-thousandth part 
of a second. 

After we have finished viewing the sun through these 
great finely-polished mirrors, we step into the labora¬ 
tories, built of solid concrete, to see the innumerable 
instruments for calculating changes between pictures. 





52 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


So constantly is the sun changing that no two pictures 
obtained are ever absolutely alike. 

We next visit the homes of the professors, a series of 
neat little offices and bed-rooms built in the mission 
style on the mountain-top, with their windows opening 
into the tree-tops as did our own room at Rila Monas- 
tary, when we made the Little Journey to the Balkans . 

Here we look over a number of photographs of stars, 
and are told of the different instruments required to 
make them. Much of this information, however, is 
well “over our heads” and we beg to be excused. 

In fact, the whole matter of photographing objects 
ninety millions of miles away is altogether too big a pro¬ 
ject for young brains such as ours, especially as we are 
looking forward to our ride back on the donkeys. 

We leave at noon and experience some difficulty in 
getting the mules past the stable. At last, however, we 
are off, and enjoy the down trip throughout. It is 
twenty minutes past four by the time we reach the foot 
of the trail, and as we found on our Little Journey 
through Spain, where we took our donkeys into the 
Pyrenees, it is not without regret that we part with 
the animals. 

Back at Los Angeles from our trip to the mountain- 
tops, we prepare at once for a voyage to inspect the 
bottom of the sea. 

A TRIP ON THE PACIFIC 

For today we have in prospect as delightful a 
trip as any on our entire journey. We are bound for 
the Cataline Islands (Kat'a-leen), an island autocracy 
out in the Pacific that is world-famous for its remark- 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 53 

ably clear channels and straits, where by means of 
glass-bottomed boats the entire sea-bottom is visible. 

From circulars we learn that the largest of these 
islands is about twenty-two miles long, and has an 
area of some four thousand seven hundred acres. 

Of course it is important to know how to get there. 
We take a traction car in Los Angeles for San Pedro 
(Ped'ro), from which the islands lie perhaps twenty- 
seven miles out to sea. The scenery on this car ride is 
hardly attractive, flat country, with an occasional 
hamlet, and then prairie on which real prairie-dogs 
disport themselves. It is a rather dreary ride and 
we are glad when at about ten o’clock we reach San 
Pedro wharf, twenty-four miles from the City of Angels. 



AVALON 




54 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Here we see in profusion boats laden with lumber, 
schooners and other vessels engaged in the Pacific coast 
trade. Gulls wheeling about mark the lobster landing, 
which recalls our New England Little Journey. 

We at once board a steamer for the Catalines, and 
for our first voyage on the Pacific. 

All of our geography rises before us, as though to 
make us regret we did not study harder at school. 
Who discovered the Pacific, and when, and under 
whose flag did he sail? How many square miles of 
water are there in this ocean? Do we remember how 
to bound it, and can we tell what degrees of latitude it 
embraces? If not we shall have plenty of time to look 
up these points in our pocket atlases as we sail island- 
ward, and this will do us far more good than to have 
it told to us. 

In fact, once we have left the break-water, stretching 
out from the dull green hills behind, and the trees have 
faded into mist over on our right and left, while the 
smell of the sea is strong and bracing, we are glad 
of something to do. We do not want to listen to the 
foolish people who are afraid of sea-sickness even on a 
sea as smooth as this. When we get out on the open 
ocean there is nothing on the smooth surface to 
see save an occasional four-master, weighted way 
down with freight; and aside from counting buoys and 
keeping an eye out for the Long Beach pier, the longest 
pier in the world, we have nothing to do but to lounge 
and idle, watch for flying-fish, and enjoy the healthful 
rest of a sunny day at sea. 

By and by, far ahead, some green mountainous cones, 
with patches of yellow, rise from the waters to mark our 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


55 


destination, the islands of St. Catalina. On every side 
are the glass-bottomed skiffs. These do not look more 
than a foot wide, and the occupants sit behind a species 
of fence, and look over it at the glass bottom. All 
around are sugar-loaf rocks, and rocks with seals upon 
them. There are men diving for coins, hotels and 
tourist shops, and everything one would expect in a 
tourist city. The scene somewhat recalls the Azores 
and also the landing at Naples, yet we cannot explain 
just why. 


THE FAUNA OF THE PACIFIC 

We find the glass-bottomed steamers the first point of 
interest to the sight-seers. As most of these visitors re¬ 
main today only, these are crowded to the guards. We, 
however, are to stay until we have seen all there is to 
be seen, so take our way to other places first. 

Not far from the wharf is the aquarium, where we 
can find the fauna of the Pacific unfolded to us through 
the medium of glass tanks. For those of us who have 
visited the aquarium in New York, the comparison will 
be most interesting. On a series of trellises, to begin 
with, there are small glass globe aquariums, where all 
manner of curiosities are housed. 

First in interest, perhaps, is the trigger-fish. 
This is shaped like a flounder; its color is dull 
brown; and there is no known reason for the name it 
bears. Then there is a sheep ’s-head which weighs some 
eighteen pounds, and lives in the same case with a 
turtle, in a sort of happy family way, for the turtle 
never snaps at the fish, nor does the fish attempt to 
annoy the turtle. Here too is the squid, which darts 


56 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



THE GULLS 


its ink out to protect itself from the foe by hiding its 
exact whereabouts, and also the ramora , which gets 
upon whales and sharks, and virtually sucks the life 
blood from them. 

Still more interesting is the transparent clam, which 
is taken from a depth of seven hundred feet beneath the 
surface, and which inhabits the beautiful roseate shells 
we found at Santa Monica. It appears that it is im¬ 
possible to obtain the proper food for these clams in 
captivity and therefore they die shortly after being 
taken. Growing coral, and dead coral with the moss 
growing on it, moss filled with red anemones like 
flowers in bloom, and pale little yellow growing sponges, 
all are here. Then, too, there are sea-hares, which re- 








OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


57 


semble a huge shell-less snail, climbing about the walls 
of its case, and causing us to wonder whether it may be 
the far-distant ancestor of our modern garden-snail. 
On the back of these hares there is a beautiful fold of 
skin which opens and closes as we watch it, while the 
little animal feeds on a great bunch of seaweed in its 
compartment. Now and then, when alarmed, these 
chocolate-red animals curl up for defense and drop like 
a stone from wherever they may be. At other times 
some of the red ink with which they are filled is visible 
beneath a rock and discloses their presence. 

An octopus, or devil-fish, of which specimens fifty 
feet in length are sometimes seen, is another attraction 
of this aquarium. These animals grow very slowly, 
but are very long-lived, and just how ancient may be 
the sleepy fellow whose long tentacles with their 
thousand feelers we see against the sides of the cage, 
no one seems to know. 

These, however, are but a few of the wonders of the 
aquarium. There are sharks’ eggs, like a piece of 
India rubber, or the seed of the thorn-tree, which fake 
ninety days to hatch, and there are conger eels four 
feet in length, with nostrils that resemble a circular 
bit of bored lead, while their eyes are sunk deep, quite 
out of sight in open sockets; lobsters and craw-fish, 
masses of claws and feelers, pretty red-eyed star-fish, 
sea-cucumbers, which mark the line between animal 
and vegetable life, the sting tree, noted for its long 
“stinger” tail, and beautiful golden perch, like a great 
gold-fish but broader, and of a magnificent reddish- 
golden shade—these are all on exhibition. We must, 
however, also make a point of seeing the goat fish, a 


58 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


tiny white fellow, the exact shape of a goat, and then 
the gold electric-fish, whose spots become phosphor¬ 
escent at night. 

MOUNTING MOONSTONES 

We now wander on through quaint, interesting 
Avalon itself. We stop to note in the window of one 
of the chop-houses a square aquarium tank in which 
is a beautiful fish, with a red center-band across its 
black body, sporting among some abalone shell. Inside, 
if we wish, we may have a fish dinner for a quarter. 

Then we come on another typically sea-side indus¬ 
try, the polishing of moonstones from the Moon Beach 
to which we shall come later. These are not the 
real moonstones of the jewelers’ shops, but agate or 
chalcedony formations, some of which bear a curious 
moss formation, resembling the moss-agate. The stones 
are found as pebbles, much like the lucky-stones we may 
find in Michigan on another Little Journey , greyish 
white, and ranging from the size of a pea to that of a 
fist. The average weight of these stones, as found, is 
thirty carats, and such a pebble is ground down in these 
shops to perhaps three, in order to be fit for setting in 
rings and stick pins. Now and then, some of these 
stones will be of lavender or of amethyst hue, and then 
they bring as much as five or even ten dollars. Com¬ 
moner sorts, when clear, retail at fifty cents. 

We enjoy the cutting of moonstones; it reminds us 
of the diamond cutters of Amsterdam we met on our 
Dutch Little Journey. The pebbles are inserted in 
engineer’s wax at the end of a stick, and then cut by 
hand until ready for the carborundum wheel with 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


59 


which they are finished. They require from twenty 
minutes to an hour and a half of grinding, but there is 
a set price of half a dollar for the work. 

DOWN TO THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA 

We have come to Avalon, however, to have a look, like 
McGiritv, at the bottom of the sea, and we will not be 
put off any longer. What Jules Verne has written in his 
“Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” and his 
“Mysterious Island,” and what we recall of “Among 
the Florida Reefs” and other books make us eager 
for this excursion. 

We go aboard the glass-bottomed tug, a regular 
steamer, in whose bottom, in either end, is set a 
glass pane, perhaps a foot in length, about which a 
black painted railing rises. Over this we and the 
other tourists aboard lean, from our benches, to look 
into the water below. The seals disport about us on the 
pebbly beach as we leave, but our eyes are soon glued 
to the green water with the. moss drifting over the peb¬ 
bles, and we forget all about the land. 

Almost at once the bottom begins to descend beneath 
us, and the beautiful scenery of the ocean bed, of which 
we have long heard so much, unrolls below. 

Here and there are black spots on this bottom, mark¬ 
ing clusters of seaweeds in the depths. Then there 
is the skeleton of a fish to attract our attention. 
At another moment the water bubbles like seltzer 
beneath that pane of glass, and while we are waiting 
for it to clear we think of Verne and his “Mysterious 
Island,” and admire the inventiveness of the author's 
brain which could imagine romance so close to truth. 


60 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


We turn again to admire the ocean bottom, where 
we see abalone shells filled with sand. The water is 
now growing deeper and more blue, and from an old 
board some great ropes rise up to support a buoy. 
The} r are overgrown with moss, like some phantom 
vessel's moorings. Ever bluer, ever deeper and ever 
more smooth becomes the bottom. In the glass we 
now see “mermaids and mermen," as the little guide 
fantastically calls them; these are our own reflections, 
of course. Then little black fish go by, darting away 
into the distance. 

By and by we sail over great stalks of the iodine kelp, 
an enormous plant like a great tobacco stalk, with 
green membraneous leaves, some of them about a foot 
in length and three inches across at their broadest 
part. To these leaves nature has added little air- 
sacks, that keep the plant up. These leaves are 
gathered and dried for the iodine they contain. Most 
of the kelp forests have a little parasite tha!t eats the 
plant to a string, as we see in a few moments. In 
among these great green kelp forests rock-bass, 
beautiful blue fish, are disporting themselves, and in 
among them there are countless hundreds of golden 
perch, which live on the sea moss. So varied are the 
objects of interest that we never tire of the picture. In 
and out of the iodine gardens these blue fishes and gold 
ones make their way. Here and there what seems a 
worm about six inches long, is noted on the rocks; it is 
in reality the sea-cucumber, such as we saw in the 
aquarium above, and the lowest known form of gen¬ 
uine animal life. Then too there are sponge-like masses, 
a sponge moss, also a very low form of life. Pink and 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


61 


lavender coral mosses, a brown moss blooming three 
times a year—these and other varieties add their beauty 
to the prospect. Then suddenly out of the crevices of 
great rocks where the blooming sea-urchin lives in pro¬ 
fusion dart sheep’s-head fish, with teeth like those of a 
human being. 

We skim over some mighty rocks jumbled here in 
great confusion, and wonder why it is that their crev¬ 
ices have not long since become filled with sand. Out 
of these crevices again rises the iodine weed, and smaller 
weeds like the sweet-fern of our middle western turn¬ 
pikes are dense. Dense as are the weeds, just so dense 
are the gold-fish. In places the kelp is right under us, 
and also the fishes. Everywhere too is a black fish with 
two white spots on its back; it is the black* perch. 

The water becomes clearer, and is filled with the 
sponge moss. Then more iodine weed comes in sight, 
this eaten away to long threads, then more shells. 
Among the latter an enormous blue-fish is dawdling, 
while smaller gold and azure varieties disport them¬ 
selves around. 

The water is so clear that we scarcely realize that 
the ocean bed on which we look is a hundred and 
twenty-five feet below us. In Florida a spy-box, a glass 
at the end of a square boxlet, is lowered from the 
sides of a boat, that one may see, as those of us who 
took the Little Journey through the Old South will 
recall; but no such depth of bottom is there at¬ 
tained. Nor is the sea so delightfully pale blue; nor do 
we find there the thousands of blue-fish, their little 
tails all in line, nor the iodine kelp rising up, some¬ 
times to a height of seventy-five feet, in huge ropes. 


62 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


From thousands these blue finny fellows turn to mil¬ 
lions ; in fact, we should not have believed it possible 
there could be so many. When the iodine masses be¬ 
neath the glass pane do not obstruct our view, we can¬ 
not begin to count them; there seems to be a depth of 
seventy-odd feet of fish to the spotted rocks and the 
moss below. 

By and by, a little brown fellow, a vegetarian, which 
keeps at play near the bottom—the kelp fish, he is 
called—puts in his appearance. The guide calls our 
attention to other wonders of the ocean. When we 
rest our necks from craning, above the glass we see only 
the leaden blue ocean. Then again we watch the 
“Garibaldi,” or yellow perch, in the forests of sea fern, 
and the ‘great white open clam-shells on a submarine 
mountain. 

At one place we cross a sargasso sea, a sort of sub¬ 
marine pampas, where starfish are numerous in the 
white sands, and there are masses of seaweed, grassy 
in form, growing from the bottom. These have a bluish 
tinge, and are very fine and feathery, especially as 
they wave in the currents. Here and there a large 
cockle shell, or a beautiful upturned abalone, makes us 
wish we could ramble where our eyes now explore, and 
gather all that we see. 

At one time our attention is drawn to the mainland 
to see a wild mountain-goat, scaling the bleak rocky 
crags, and looking down at us saucily. Curious lateral 
lines in the sands on the bottom produced in reality by 
the currents are the work of “mermaids plowing” ac¬ 
cording to the little guide. 

To tell everything we see, the mermaids’ hair, sea- 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


63 


weed which its name describes, the kelp that has no 
air balls, but a strong stalk instead to keep it up in the 
waves, the skates on the bottom and the other strange 
forms, would be impossible in these pages. 

By and by, we discern the next island, St. Clemen¬ 
tine, twenty-eight miles off to sea, whose sole inhabi¬ 
tants are sheep-herders, and then we round in and 
come to the seal rocks, where is to be seen perhaps the 
finest herd of free seals in the world, next to the famous 
one of San Francisco, accessible to the ordinary tourist. 
We see seals everywhere on the rocks, the little cubs 
often lying on their mothers’ backs, or some old one 
moving sluggishly to where the countless gulls hover. 
There are light brown, grey and even black seals here, 
in all the freedom of other and wilder seas. We stop a 
while to watch them and listen to their whimperings, 
and then return a bit more rapidly than we came, over 
the submarine gardens. 

AN ISLAND AUTOCRACY 

It is a quarter to five when we reach Avalon once more. 
We saunter about the quaint little island town, with its 
shaded cottages and its street overhung by the euca¬ 
lyptus trees. We visit the sites for the tents of the 
summer city, and see many of the great blooming 
geranium trees. 

Then we drop into the offices of the island autocracy, 
to learn something of its government. Probably in 
our early childhood we wished we could buy an island 
somewhere and be king or queen. That is just about 
what has been done at Avalon. About fifteen years 
ago the Company purchased this island, and practically 


64 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


rules it as might some Czar. No ship may land here 
except that of the Company. No stores may be opened 
except of the sort the Company desires. The boats 
refuse to carry supplies the Company does not desire, 
so that rival hotels are impossible. In fact, were there 
a despot ruling over Avalon the situation would not be 
very different. 

We learn interesting facts about the island. For in¬ 
stance, we hear that at one time there was a mining boom, 
gold and silver having been found in Cherry Valley. 
There is also splendid wild goat hunting in the interior. 

HUNTING WILD GOATS 

In fact, we ourselves join one of the parties which are 
constantly being formed and go on such a hunt. 
Guides and horses are obtained and we ride to that 
side of the island where the wild goats are most 
numerous. There, with a thirty-three round Winchester 
gun, we try our skill. The desire of each hunter is, 
of course, to obtain the head of an animal, which is 
mounted by the sportsman. 

We also visit the enormous sheep-pastures in the 
interior of the island, which remind those of us who 
made the Little Journey to Australia of the great sheep 
ranges of New Zealand. At one place there are some 
twenty thousand domestic sheep in the enclosures. 

Then, too, there are fig orchards, where the fruit 
ripens in July, and this has a peculiar flavor not to be 
obtained on the mainland, and banana trees also are 
there to demonstrate that we are in the South. 

It is nearly supper time now and so we return to the 
hotel. We must hurry through our meal, since it is 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


65 


Saturday evening, so that we may be down at the dock 
and witness the fireworks with which the incoming boat 
is greeted. After this there is dancing and card playing 
and the like, in which some of us join. 

Those of us who are too timid or do not find such re¬ 
creation to our taste, indulge in the island literature, 
and learn how St. Catalina was discovered by Juan 
Rodriguez Cabrillo, in September, 1542, how on this 
island of forty thousand acres there is a peak two thous¬ 
and five hundred feet high, and how, way back in the 
Stone Age, man was an inhabitant of the islands. How 
did he come those weary miles from the mainland? 
What manner of boat or raft did he build? Indians, too, 
were here later. What did their canoes resemble? It is 
interesting to speculate on these problems. 

Then, to bed, to rest for another day of sight-seeing 
on the island. 

FISHING FOR THE LEAPING TUNA 

Rising early the next morning, down in the lobby of 
the hotel we pick up the “Records of the Ananias So¬ 
ciety, composed principally of Eastern liars,” which 
gives the records of supposed tuna catches from 1894 on. 

This naturally leads us to inquire into tuna-fishing, 
for which these islands are as famous as is Nantucket 
for its blue-fish, and perhaps to arrange for a fishing 
excursion. 

The tuna, we learn, is the largest of the bony-fishes. 
In the Atlantic, specimens are occasionally harpooned 
which weigh fifteen hundred pounds. The tuna is a 
fish of wide range, being found in the warm temperature 
of practically all seas. This, however, is about the 


66 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



ON THE WHARF AT AVALON 

only place where it comes in shore in numbers, and is 
caught with rod and reel. The common name then 
is the “tunny” or “horse-mackerel” of the New Eng¬ 
land fishermen. 

The tuna of the Catalina waters differs from those 
found elsewhere in its great leaping powers. These 
are developed in its pursuit of its natural prey, the Cali¬ 
fornia flying-fish. To catch them it makes great leaps 
out of the water. This gave its distinctive name of 
the leaping tuna. 

The tuna here is taken with rod and reel and a regu¬ 
lar club has been organized. The rules of this asso¬ 
ciation are interesting. Any one who has caught a 
tuna with rod and reel, in California waters, which 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


67 


weighs over a hundred pounds, and had such catch 
properly registered, is eligible. The member catching 
the fish weighing most is president and holds office 
until his record is exceeded. The member catching 
the greatest number of tunas in any calendar year, re¬ 
gardless of weight (the average here is about one hun¬ 
dred and eighty-three pounds), is vice-president and 
likewise holds office until his score is beaten by some 
other member. 

For breakfast this morning we get a typical Califor¬ 
nia island meal, beginning with navel oranges. Then 
follow clam bouillon, grape-fruit and honey from the 
Sinii Valley (to be visited later) or fig-jam from the 
island itself. After that comes shredded codfish, or fried 
red rock cod, or “yellow-tail,” or broiled salt mackerel. 

MOONSTONE HUNTING 

This morning we will indulge in another submarine 
outing, into a different section of the sargasso seas. 
Again aboard one of the glass-bottomed boats, we go out 
among the sugar-loaf rocks, where the water is per¬ 
haps forty-five feet deep and of green blue. Then the 
wonders begin again, much as we saw them yesterday— 
the sea-cucumbers in the sand, the great white rocks, 
and the golden perch in the iodine weeds, while a light 
blue moss-like sea-violet, which loses its color as soon 
as it strikes the air, is a new curiosity. The trip is much 
like our previous one, except that we skirt closer in to 
shore, where the lambs are visible on the slopes of the 
mountains and where great rock masses hide from 
view the old boat hospital anchored in a picturesque 
cove. Some black diving birds, a crane or two, and 


68 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


then the blue bass, with the two white spots on their 
backs, are the principal novelties encountered. By and 
by our attention is drawn to a seal, one of the local herd 
for whose protection fines ranging from twenty to two 
hundred dollars have been instituted, these especially 
providing for the protection of the one or two pups which 



HUNTING MOONSTONES AT CATALINA 


accompany each mother seal in June, when she teaches 
them to swim on the coast here, to the delight of pass¬ 
ers-by; the little pups are at first absolutely helpless 
in the water. Now gulls and cormorants and pelicans 
are pointed out, and we make a turn to one side to 
carry the mail to a queer old hermit who lives here on 
the beach because he is afflicted with some nervous 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 69 

trouble. He takes his letters in a bag at the end of a 
long pole fitted to his skiff. 

Finally we land at the moonstone beach, five miles 
from Avalon, where, at the foot of the mountains, along 
the narrow gravelly areas that the water occasionally 
washes, every one searches for the pebbles, or for the 
rarer moss-agates. Then, too, one can climb over the 
boulders to a cave or to the top of a peak to take 
pictures, or else dislodge sea-urchins and rock oysters. 
A few of us go in wading in our search for the 
moonstones. There is no lack of pastimes. 

Some of us listen to the old boat-captain as he tells 
of an island about twenty-eight miles off San Pedro, 
where the gulls nest; the island being one great rock 
rising from the sea, on which the nests are so dense as 
to be less than a foot apart, just enough room for one 
brood not to interfere with another. These nests are 
of seaweed and grass set right on the rock, and about 
ten inches across. From two to five eggs are laid in 
them, and on warm days these are left alone much of 
the time. 

We also hear stories of sharks occasionally seen in 
these waters. Now it is time to return. 

On the way Mt. Black Jack, two thousand five hun¬ 
dred and fifty feet high, is pointed out to us on the is¬ 
land. We now find the blue sea full of inch-long trans¬ 
parent white fish, tails all in line, some wiggling both 
tail and fins, others motionless save for a gradual drift¬ 
ing in one given direction. They are thick as snow in a 
December snow-storm. 

Returning for luncheon, we idle away some time 
with the seals on the beach, which come right out of the 


70 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


water at Avalon to take the fish thrown them. Tame 
as they are, the big fellows, headed by their leader 
“Old Ben,” fight among themselves while scores of gulls 
wheel in and about to seize the shreds of fish torn free 
by the sea lions. 

The steamer for the mainland does not leave until 
half-past three, so we have plenty of time to make 



SEALS AT AVALON 

again the submarine excursion of yesterday, and 
get some additional photographs of the coast; the 
camera unfortunately cannot take the effects seen 
through the glass bottom. Then with a lantern made 
of a dried star-fish, and other souvenirs, we are ready 
to bid the Mt. Desert of the Pacific adieu. 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


71 


COTTAGE LIFE ALONG THE PACIFIC AT OCEAN PARK 

On the way back to Los Angeles we make the acquain¬ 
tance of some people who have a summer cottage at 
Ocean Park, which is, as we remember, practically 
a suburb of Santa Monica. 

They invite us to take tea with them, and we get a 
taste of regular sea-side cottage life. The cottages, 



COTTAGE LIFE 


which have a neat hall leading to the dining-room at 
the back, and several bed-rooms upstairs, can be rented 
furnished, for the season. Women are then hired 
to cook and keep house and the expense of hotel life 
is saved, while most, if not all, of its pleasures can be 
enjoyed. The supper, with its home cooking and the 





72 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


glimpse of family life, is refreshing to us, furnishing a 
little variety in our journey. 

VENICE IN CALIFORNIA 

After supper we take the cars for Venice, the great 
amusement resort on the Pacific, erected in imitation 
of the glorious Italian city. Every building is now il¬ 
luminated with glaring yellow electric lights, there are 
booths and - shows and restaurants. Standing out 
against the night sky, outlined in lights, is a cafe, in 
the form of a caravel. 

Crowds surge everywhere. The destination of most 
of them, however, is the palm garden, where there are 
loges and orchestra seats and a stage, and where an 
orchestra dispenses popular music, while, as at the 
cafes of Fiume, the populace enjoys light refreshments. 

Owing to the rather prohibitive rate out from Los 
Angeles to Venice, the crowd is a most refined one, and 
we enjoy our evening heartily. 

Of course a night visit to Venice, whether it be the 
Venice we visited on the Little Journey to Italy or Venice 
in California, does not content us, and next morning 
we decide that we may as well see all that is to be seen 
in this place before passing to any other, and so we 
again take traction for Venice. 

At the entrance to the main avenue of the city we 
see a building which reproduces very faithfully the 
architecture and coloring of its Italian model. It is 
of a brown and yellow stucco, and contains, besides a 
substantial bank, offices of real estate agents on the 
ground floor, while up above are those of a doctor 
and a notary. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


73 



SHIP HOTEL AT VENICE 


The street itself from this point is of asphalt, broad 
and lined with pillars of yellow imitation marble sur¬ 
mounted by great bronze capitals. Behind these pil¬ 
lars there are curio stores where abalone shells, spoons 
of the same, pins and tidies are for sale. Then there 
are parlors for pool, a game of which people are very 
fond out here, and hotels, bowling alleys, popcorn 
and peanut stands, all seemingly brand new, for 
Venice has been in existence a single year only; but 
for the absence of crowds and the calls of barkers, one 
would fancy it to be simply a temporary carnival 
city, instead of a substantial town. 

As a matter of fact, however, Venice is little more 
than a dream city, so far as its conception goes. A 











74 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


gentleman of Richmond, Virginia, Kinney by name, 
having bought real estate in Los Angeles, twelve miles 
away, and becoming infatuated with this site, resolved 
to lay out a Venetian city, and has already expended 
not less than a million and a half dollars in the venture. 
To begin with, he purchased about five hundred and 
sixty acres for his site. Then he built three miles of 
canals, a wharf, auditorium, and ship-hotel, as well 
as another great hotel patterned after St. Mark’s 
Cathedral in old Venice of the Adriatic. A mammoth 
breakwater was added; streets, too, were laid out, 
and the pillars for the arcades of future buildings 
were erected. 

Then lots were offered for sale, under certain con¬ 
ditions—among others that there must be a Venetian 
arch along the street, and arcaded walls, as well as 
marbleized columns, while the roads must at all 
times be in line with those of the neighbors. 

We step first into the Bank of Venice to admire 
the frieze, a series of panels of Venetian life, in heavy 
blue effects. Then we peep in at the handsome 
bowling alley across the way, where walls of red, 
relieved by heavy imitation ebony, scarlet carpeting 
and deep brown leather wall seats give an air of 
richness to the whole. 

From here we pass on to the European and Oriental 
Exposition, where Aladdin’s lamp seems to have been 
rubbed to supply wonders for this Venice of the Pacific. 
Great Japanese booths are everywhere, and we may 
purchase any number of oddities. There are purses 
of red or blue silk, or of leather, in green and yellow 
design; queer, crude china figures of men and women, 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


75 


and heavy brass egg-shaped cups and the like, as well 
as pictures in India ink which sadly tempt our 
purses. We cannot resist purchasing some of the tiny 
lockets of bone, containing five dice, each one per¬ 
fect and yet each no larger than a good sized pin-head. 

Continuing up the pier, we come to another shop, 
the only place of the sort in America, where ornaments 
are made of seaweed. Just how this is done is a secret. 
The windows are filled with curious little brown and 
white figures, principally brownies, with white bands 
about their heads, and high collars, standing on small 
ornamental platforms. For these we learn the bull- 
kelp species of seaweed alone is used—this having 
a great air-ball on the top, and the string being prob¬ 
ably forty to fifty feet long. The plant is gathered 
green, and the kelp prepared, for perhaps three to 
four months, by a secret process, before ready for use. 
Then black, green, and cream or yellow kelp are worked 
together for the desired effects. Ladies’ hats are 
made of it, which cannot be hurt by the rain. Belts, 
resembling rattlesnake skin, and even tiny tea-pots 
and the like, are formed of this elastic material. 

Retracing our steps from this pier, we can either 
indulge in the swings on the beach, or the carousal, 
or drop into one of the bath-houses for a plunge in 
the brine. Here, too, we meet the Venice barker, 
a tall negro in a sailor suit, calling for this show or 
that. Then we come to another bathing pavilion, 
built in truly Venetian style. The bath-rooms on the 
second and third floors are each surrounded by ver¬ 
andas, and these are enclosed by imitation yellow 
marble columns, rising to an open-work roof. 


76 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Now we are on the Midway. Here we find an expert 
checker player willing to play with anyone at ten cents 
a game, and keeping up games with five different 
persons at once. There are also German frankfurter 
stands, Japanese ping-pong tables, and the usual 
shows, such as the doll-woman, darkness and dawn, 
the house of mirth (where the barker is dressed like 
a gorilla), a chicken farm where you try to hit the 
chickens with a soft ball, and so on. A working mine, 
and an oriental theater, palmists and cafes are also 
here. One barker, however, interests us greatly, for 
he is a ventriloquist of first-rate ability. He carries 
a doll in his arms, and it is difficult to realize that it is 
not the doll but his own voice answering his different 
questions, for his lips are closed, while those of the 
doll are moved by means of hidden springs. 

We have to be on our guard against the sharpers 
and confidence men, who try to swindle us out of our 
money by getting us to make bets in fun, and other 
devices; they are very numerous out here. 

When evening approaches we are rather tired, 
and glad to beat a retreat back to Los Angeles. 

UP ANOTHER MOUNTAIN PEAK 

Our next trip is to be from the sea-level skyward 
again, this time on a route that no tourist omits,— 
the traction up Mt. Lowe. We go' by street car from 
Los Angeles direct, and as part of the route has been 
covered before, on the way we read a little booklet 
descriptive of the mountain. 

We find that the bald top of Mt. Lowe (Lo) stands 
six thousand one hundred feet above sea level, and 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


77 


that the Alpine Tavern at the end of the electric 
railway is eleven hundred feet below this su mmi t, 
The real grade of the trip begins at sixty feet to the 
hundred, and on its greatest steeps we rise sixty- 
two feet in every hundred. Statistics are usually 
uninteresting, but here we are glad to learn that the 
incline up Mt. Echo has a length of five thousand feet, 



ASCENDING MT. LOWE 


while the direct height is fourteen hundred feet; 
we also scan the table of heights of other peaks—Mt. 
Washington’s ascent three miles in length; that of 
Pilatus, which we made on our Little Journey to Swit¬ 
zerland, likewise three; up the Schynige Platte the 
ride is four miles and a third; while up the Rigi Vitze- 
nau it is four and a half miles; at Monte Generosa 




78 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


it is five miles and a half; the trip up Pike’s Peak is 
eight miles and a half. From Los Angeles to the 
Alpine Tavern on Mt. Lowe is exactly twenty-five 
miles, of which eight are mountain-riding. 

We are thinking of what an appropriate title the 
Mt. Blanc of the West would be for the object of our 
trip of today. Before we have gone very far, how¬ 
ever, we feel inclined to call it the great American 
robbers’-nest, for no mountain railway in all the 
world is worse conducted than is this on Mt. Lowe. 
But for missing the gorgeous view, we should do very 
well to omit it. To Pasadena the ride is practically 
much as we have seen before, but although every one 
aboard is a tourist who has come to see, the cars take 
an unattractive sort of “back-alley” route, through 
uninteresting country, and when in Pasadena they 
pass through the least attractive streets. It is a 
quarter to ten when the heart of Pasadena is reached. 
Thence we follow a country road, fringed with lemon 
orchards, and then the steep grade begins and the 
blossoming apricot trees grow smaller and smaller 
beneath us, while the clouds become ever nearer. 
We notice that the soil here is of a yellow and brown 
hue, strewn with pebbles on the top. Forests now 
appear, and passing through them we reach Rubio 
(Ru-be'o), which is just a pavilion in a valley, at 
an elevation of two thousand two hundred feet—an 
elevation as great as that of some of the famous Cat- 
skill hotels. 

Here, however, they give us no time to look 
about, but hurry us into the real mountain-climb¬ 
ing car. 

• • - 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


79 


UP IN A MOUNTAIN-CLIMBER 

This car consists of three tiers of two benches each, 
each bench seating five persons. The car stands in a 
nook surrounded by the forest-covered mountains, 
where the bubbling of a brook is audible from 
below. We look up at the steep incline, with its 
three rails, and between each two of these a pair of 
cables. It is 10:18 before we start, for the motor- 
man is having a friendly chat with an acquaintance, 
and the conductor does not care to hurry him. There 
are numberless such useless delays on the journey. 
For instance, just when the fog, that lies heavy this 
morning, is beginning to rise and a magnificent view 
unfolds behind us, the conductor comes around to 
interrupt our admiration by demanding our tickets. 
That done, he makes no effort to explain what is seen, 
but lets our sight-seeing take care of itself. By and 
by we are again enveloped in fog, and then we are at 
the Search-light, where we stop for thirty-five minutes. 

There is, of course, nothing to be seen on misty 
days such as this. On the belvedere we walk about 
disconsolate, looking at— clouds. We ramble over the 
site of the great fire, when the tavern was burnt; 
we pick up pebbles and throw them into the valleys; 
we wonder why we are making this useless stop, and 
are thoroughly disgusted that we have come, when 
we finally step into an open summer car of eleven 
benches, each holding five persons, and prepare to 
ascend. Still, however, we wait and wait, hearing only 
the wind, and seeing from our vantage point only 
a tent beside the wheels at the head of the incline. 


80 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


By and by—at 11:24, to be exact—we do pro¬ 
ceed. We are now to enter the Echo Mountain por¬ 
tion of the ride. We are, as it were, hugging the 
mountain-side and incessantly turning and ascending. 
Here and there we catch a glimpse of the little valley 
through the fog. It is like looking into a vast steam 
kettle from which the mists emerge. This, however, 
is just a regular winding electric line, instead of a 
great inclined plane, as was the other section, and it 
gives us a ride among the trees, scrub-oak for the most 
part, and makes horse-shoe curves over the pine- 
tops. The conductor does not care to have the 
trouble or labor of wiping a moist seat or two, and 
so despite our angry protests he lowers a great wall 
of canvas on each side of the car, and thus boxed in 
without a chance to see anything but the seats and our 
neighbors, we are carried up Mt. Lowe. Later, when 
he gets within sight of the top, and fears, perhaps, 
some stray inspector, if there be such a thing on the 
line, he raises the curtain, and we can see rocks 
dripping with fog and covered with fern, and note 
squirrels in the tree-tops, and here and there perceive 
a loop of our own track far below. Finally, at 11:51, 
in order that we may be obliged to take dinner there, 
we come out at the Alpine Tavern on top. It is in a 
most beautiful spot, a dense pin-oak wilderness in 
the wilds. 

A BIT OF TRANSPLANTED SWITZERLAND 

The summit of Mt. Lowe is like a bit of Switzerland 
transplanted to the far West. The tavern is built 
like a Swiss chalet,—its upper story of light yellow 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


81 


wood. In the reception room a great log fire burns 
upon heavy andirons, and to right and left of it huge 
logs are piled. A kettle swings over the fire, upon 
its crane, as in Whittier’s “ Snow-bound.” A great 
wooden chimney-piece reaches to the ceiling, and 
above it the words “Ye Ornament of the House is ye 
Gueste who Doth frequent it /” are inscribed in Old 
English letters. 

Of course our appetite impels us at once to dine, 
after which we start on a walk to the top of Mt. 
Lowe. We might hire a burro for this purpose, but 
prefer stretching our rather stiff limbs, and so take 
to the poor man’s carriage and start at precisely 12:39. 

THE WALK TO THE TOP 

A steep, gravelly trail leads through the brown 
earth-bank and among tangles of oak, so that it is 
often hard to find the way. We see only an olive-like 
brown-stalked shrub, pin-oaks, wet with the fog, 
and pines that sing and sough. Here and there, there 
are little points of attraction, of which the Rainbow 
Springs is one. Then, too, one can stop to feed the 
very tame grey squirrels of which the trees are full. 

By and by, however, we find that we are in the very 
heart of the mountains. Chain on chain of granite 
peaks, looking like white or pink marble, rise out of 
the forests of oak. At the edges of these cliffs there are 
jumbled masses of scrub and rock. We get a brief 
view and then the fogs fall and all is hidden, and, as 
on our ascent of the Meeraugerspitze in our Little 
Journey to Hungary , we are soon walking on the 
brink of what seems like a bottomless abyss. By 


82 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


half-past one it begins to pour, so we have to turn 
back and run for cover. 

travelers’ trials 

Here becomes apparent the difference between genuine 
sight-seers and tourists. The sight-seer comes to 
see . If today he cannot go up the mountain he stays 
until tomorrow, or the next day. For, argues he, 
what is the good of going farther without having seen 
what is before us? The tourist, however, is content 
to let the top of Mt. Lowe pass unvisited and takes 
the next car back. 

Hardly are we safe at the tavern before it begins to 
hail on the mountain. The hail is sharp and fine and 
sticks deep in places. It is cozy at the windows now, 
listening to the beating of the hail-stones on the pane 
and the crackle of the logs here within. 

Meantime we hear people talking of the mountain. 
Some one tells how originally an Alpine club had a 
hostelry here, and how even now in the forest, which 
is a government timber reservation, deer and black 
bear are found. Probably we shall meet the chief 
ranger of the forest, and each such ranger, we learn, 
has to watch over some ten thousand acres. His 
principal precaution is against forest fires and when 
these are detected he telephones to other rangers 
to come to his help. Hunters with guns are excluded, 
unless provided with permits for rifle-hunting, which 
can be obtained. These rangers have an interesting 
time among themselves; but their life is a lonely one, 
for they live in camps, six men to a camp, and each 
camp is eight miles from the next. There in the 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 83 

log-cabin or the shake-roof tent, they tell stories 
or play cards when off duty. 

Another carload of people conies up and in, wet 
from the trip. They dry off before the sweet, balsam¬ 
breathing logs, while mountain tales are recounted. 
At half-past four, however, there is a noticeable clear¬ 
ing out of the tourists, for the last down-car leaves 
then and only those remaining over night will be left. 

The sun has by this time come out again, and we 
once more make the climb to the top. An electric 
railway to this summit is projected, we are told, so 
we wish to go in pioneer fashion while we may. We 
find now that holly bushes and mazanita make their 
appearance beyond the point where the hail-storm 
routed us, and while the thunder rumbles on other 
mountains, we scale a narrow rocky trail, zig-zagging 
ever below us as we ascend, to points where the 
valley is unfolded in all its beauty. Our hearts are 
pumping with the altitude as much as with the climb, 
and so we stop to rest a moment on the rock, while 
some one recalls old Dr. Lowe, who projected the 
car route on the peak. 

At one place on the forest climb we pass through a 
grove of fine oaks, and to these we find every passer-by 
has hung his visiting card. So we add our cards. 

After a considerable journey, we are on the very 
top, an open area with some old barren trees, and a 
flag-staff minus Old Glory. It is now 5:10 P. M. 
and our pedometer shows that here we enter on the 
third hundred miles of walking we have done on this 
trip. Down mountain is always faster than up, 
and at five minutes to six we are back at the-tavern. 


84 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



At supper we gather round the log fire to enjoy its 
warmth, and then, in the evening, at the two tables 
in the sitting-room young and old indulge in various 
games, while a great fire sings its accompaniment. 

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE TRIP 

The next morning, of course, we want to descend 
from Mt. Lowe. The day is gorgeous and everything 
assumes so different an aspect as to make it appear 
almost a different excursion. We are awakened at 
six by a hand-bell, while it is still so dark here 
above the clouds that we need the electric light to 
see to dress. 

After breakfast we find that only our party is to 
go down in the first car, which leaves at half-past 


READY TO DESCEND MT. LOWE 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 85 

eight, so we have the car to ourselves. As far as Echo 
Mountain the journey is the same as yesterday, of 
course, but when we arrive here we now stop off, to 
visit Lowe Observatory, maintained by the car com¬ 
pany, that, on two nights of the week, tourists may 
come and view the simpler wonders of the heavens 
under the guidance of Prof. Larkin, one of the great 
comet discoverers of our country. Formerly Prof. 
Swift, whose specialty also was comets, and who was 
world-renowned, was here, remaining in charge, in 
fact, until his eyesight failed him, and he removed 
to Marathon, N. Y. 

We enjoy the ride down immensely. The sky is a 
beautiful blue and we can see chain on chain of moun¬ 
tains unfold as we descend. Looking through the 
shrubbery and the tall pines, we peer into canyons 
completely clothed with verdure, and then beyond 
to the valley with the great flat city, where the white 
steam-curls from trains rise skyward at intervals. 
Beyond the city are square cultivated patches, and 
we see areas of low fogs, like distant seas, in 
other places. There is just a delightful chill in the 
air, appropriate to a mountain excursion; this is a 
little sharper in the forests of wild holly and live-oak 
than elsewhere. 


A MOUNTAIN CHARACTER 

At the observatory, a small white building on the 
top of a knoll, near the head of the incline, we meet 
Prof. Larkin. He is a typical gentleman of the 
old school, in shiny black suit, and black skull cap, 
and it is almost with disappointment that we do not 


86 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


find him adding knee-breeches to complete his costume. 
He shows us the telescope, which he hid in a reservoir 
on the bluff in order to save it when the great hotel 
fire on this bluff in December of 1905 threatened the 
observatory. 

Then we return to the top of the incline and enter 
a car to descend. There is not even a conductor now 



NEWSPAPER VENDER, LOS ANGELES 


to accompany us, and our party makes the trip quite 
alone in the little car, leaving at 10:20. Suddenly a 
phantom sea, caused by fogs which never rise above 
two thousand seven hundred or three thousand feet 
at the utmost, appears among the orange groves in 
the San Gabriel Valley. Then the views, ever un¬ 
folding, so compel our interest that we forget all about 








OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


87 


the annoyances of the previous day. At 10:28 we are 
at the foot of the incline and ready for the cars for 
the city. These leave at 10:40 A. M. and at two min¬ 
utes past eleven we are again in Pasadena. Thence 
back to Los Angeles by easy stages we make our 
way in season for lunch. 

SAN GABRIEL—A BIT OF OLD SPAIN 

From Los Angeles, in the afternoon, we again 
take our departure, this time, however, for a journey 
not quite so lengthy, to the neighboring hamlet of 
San Gabriel (San Gay'bre-el), where the famous old 
San Gabriel Mission stands. San Gabriel is one of 
the excursions to which we shall look back later with 
delight. So primitive and beautiful is the town, that 
our recollections of it can never be effaced. 

We take the traction once again, and find the 
ride rather an uninteresting one. Real estate subdi¬ 
visions are the principal adornments of the country 
through which we pass, until later we come to the 
orange groves. 

From the outset we are charmed with San Gabriel. 
There is a quaint little tavern, then a general mer¬ 
chandise shop, and after that, country homes among 
the trees; these have the roofs slanting over the side 
walls to pillars along the curb. Hardly any of the 
buildings are more than one story high, and the roofs, 
even that of the little hotel, are moss-grown. 

Ahead, among these picturesque homes, rises the 
old mission, its walk flanked with palms on the one 
side and the narrow old cement wall on a bed of 
brick on the other. In the rear of the church, also 


88 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


surrounded by a wall, there is a garden of tall gera¬ 
niums and roses, upon which looks the long white 
ground-floor porch of the priests’ home, overhung 
with ivy. In front stands the church itself, yellow 
and ancient. 

Stepping inside, we find the walls whitewashed, 



A SPANISH TAVERN AT SAN GABRIEL 

and hung with rather crude pictures of the Apostles, 
all in heavy frames. Small oblong windows, high up 
in the walls, give light to this interior, and while we 
take seats in the old wooden pews, a young cleric 
repeats the story of the mission—how the church 
was built about 1771, the statues and decorations 
being brought from both Spain and Mexico at that 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


89 


time. He points out to us the several figures on the 
altar, the paintings and the old brick floor, and then, 
at one side, the pulpit from which the fathers preached 
to the Indians. Then, while he tells how the bodies 
of five priests were buried inside the church to keep 
the Indians from looting their graves (for, as their 
chiefs were buried with all their treasure, they thought 
that the priests would be interred likewise), the priest 
leads us into a little baptistery annex, in the center 
of which small whitewashed room is a stone block 
surmounted by a great pan or font with a lid of 
hammered copper, brought from Spain a century and 
a half ago. With water from a well in a corner near by 
three hundred Indians were baptized at this font. 
Only last Sunday, he adds, two children were baptized 
here, for the mission is still in use as a Roman Catholic 
Church, the congregation numbering about two hun¬ 
dred and fifty. Years ago the mission lands were 
confiscated, but there still remain to San Gabriel 
about a hundred acres, set out largely in oranges, 
and these lands are worked by the priests themselves. 

From the church we wander on into the old Mexican 
cemetery, where each grave is surrounded by a paling, 
and is adorned with a large wooden cross, the arm 
ends of which are quite ornamental. Old Spanish 
epitaphs mingle here with English, for the cemetery 
is still in use. Even as we leave the place, in fact, 
we see six little children bearing a child’s coffin into 
the cemetery, and behind, on foot, a number of women, 
following the grave-digger. 

If we had time, we should enjoy taking a peep into 
the lives of these people, for they are typically Spanish. 


90 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Their principal article of food, for example, is the 
tamale (tah-mah'leh), a dish consisting of beef or 
chicken, corn and olives, mixed together and ground 
fine in a machine intended for the purpose, then 
highly seasoned, wrapped in corn-husks and boiled. 
And, too, they are very fond of tortillas (tor-til'yahs), 



FIVE MILES OF ORANGE GROVES 


which are made of an unsalted corn-paste and resem¬ 
ble unleavened bread, the dough being patted into 
very thin cakes which are usually cooked on the out¬ 
door stoves. These tortillas put us in mind of taste¬ 
less pancakes. For feasts chili-con-carne is added, 
with wine, if it can be afforded. 

Most of the women here make a living by picking 
oranges, lemons, walnuts, and berries. School attend- 







OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


91 


ance is very lax and so the children join their 
mothers, whole families riding out in merry wagon¬ 
loads, to do the picking. 

Continuing our stroll through San Gabriel village, 
the little whitewashed frame houses with the verandas 
on the second floor overshadowed by pepper-trees, the 
old tavern with its slanting posts, and the grape-vine 
tavern from which floats the music of a Spanish 
guitar, interest us greatly. In the courtyard of the 
tavern we are shown what is claimed to be the 
largest grape-vine in the world. It rises from a trunk 
composed of three or four intertwining vines, and 
climbs from post to post in the yard. The roots of 
this vine, it is stated, stretch out for two hundred 
feet in each direction, and its age is estimated at a 
hundred and fifty years. 

This seen, we start back to Los Angeles, arriving 
there a little before half-past four o’clock. 

LONG BEACH 

At five, we are again aboard a car bound for Long 
Beach and the Pacific. These cars take one through 
the poorer district of Chinatown and notably among 
the laundries. There we are amused to see what 
look like balloons, dangling inverted, on the roofs. 
They are, it seems, the laundry hung out to dry inside 
of sheets. The architecture in this district is very 
uniform, the homes having steps at one side of the 
front, leading to an indented porch that is about 
equal to the front room in depth. Innumerable new 
real estate subdivisions are out this way, for Los 
Angeles is unique the world over for these, and to 


92 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


open such a one the land-owner simply lays out streets, 
plants trees, and where the main road is encountered 
puts up ornamental gate-posts. We pass through the 
town of Watts, and at about half-past five are at 
Long Beach. 

Long Beach is a regular summer resort town with 
cottages everywhere and a little ocean front, along 
which, only a square away, the main street extends. 
All manner of candy stores and curio shops are here, 
and we are especially attracted by curious jewelry in 
the windows which is made of fish-scales. There 
is a main pier running out into the sea, and an aquar¬ 
ium, and then, beyond again, we see the beautiful 
quiet Pacific in the full moonlight, with the great 
waves dashing in on the sand, and the beach reflecting 
the waves before the water has fully crept in. 

Those of us who have visited the New Jersey re¬ 
sorts are reminded of them here. There are the 
popcorn and the salt-water taffy shops, the dance 
halls on the pier, the restaurants, and even the board¬ 
walk, leading to an immense bath-house in the colonial 
style. We take supper in a cafe overlooking this 
scene, where there are sweet peas at each table to add 
their fragrance to its beauty. 

Then returning to Los Angeles in the late evening, 
a visit to one of the good theaters serves to end the 
day fitly. 

THE AMERICAN ROTTERDAM 

For the morrow we have laid plans to finish with 
Los Angeles and its vicinity. This means another 
trip out to San Pedro, where we go for a ramble 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 93 

among the wharves of our miniature Rotterdam. So 
great is the number of masts in the slips and of sailors 
on the quays, and of pieces of lumber and the like, 
that we call to mind our Dutch Journey at once. 
Otherwise, however, there is nothing to see, the little 
homes and stores not being especially attractive, 
and the famous government breakwater, requiring 
a boat to take us to it, being of greater interest 
to specialists than to travelers like ourselves. 

Returning to the City of the Angels for lunch, we 
secure a grape-fruit, costing but a nickel out here, 
to regale us. Then we will go by train to Shorb 
(Shor-eb), or as it was formerly called, Dolgeville 
(Doll-gea-ville), to see what has become of what was 
once the largest vineyard in the world. We find it 
laid out in a series of great real estate tracts,—such 
is the advance in the value of property in the West. 

We continue by rail to Pasadena for another 
farewell look; and then returning to Los Angeles, call 
once again at the post-office for our mail. 

By the time this is done and our letters answered, 
and we have had our tea, we are quite ready for bed. 

THE MOST SOUTHWESTERLY RAILWAY RIDE 
IN THE COUNTRY 

Our last morning in Los Angeles we devote to shopping. 
There are little nut-shells of views for this friend, a 
horned-toad sandwich for that, a little pin of Brazilian 
beetles set in amber or a handsome jade or turquoise 
pin for some other. Decorated ostrich eggs, match- 
cases to contain a photograph under a hidden spring, 
spun candy, and so forth, all tempt us to purchase. 


94 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Then, at 2:20 P. M., we prepare to leave for 
San Diego, on the most southwesterly stretch of 
railway in the United States. 

While we are awaiting our train we “read up” in 
the different booklets as to this trip. San Diego 
(San Dee-a'go) we find to be a city with a population 
in 1900 of seventeen thousand seven hundred, and in 



WINTER HOME IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA 


1905 of twenty-five thousand, so rapidly is emigration 
peopling up the West. The county in which it lies, 
which is of the same name, has an area of eighty-five 
hundred square miles, about equal to that of Massa¬ 
chusetts. 

This part of California has the most reliable rainfall 
in all the state, and so alfalfa, vegetables, blackberries, 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


95 


two crops in a year, and strawberries the year around, 
to say nothing of other small fruits, are raised. 
Then there are gems found here—such, for instance, as 
kunzite, which is not known to exist in any other part 
of the world. 

San Diego City, the county seat, is but fifteen miles 
from the border of Mexico, and it, therefore, is our 
most southwestern city of any importance. 

Now the train is off. For company we have an old 
Wells Fargo agent who recounts tales of the Califor¬ 
nia staging days, and a couple of Theosophist 
organizers, of whose work at Point Loma (Lo'mah) 
we shall learn more. The country at first is flat, 
then rolling, and interspersed with orange groves and 
olive orchards. At Anaheim (An-a-haim) we are in 
the great walnut region, and here and at other stops 
pecans—salted and in little paper sacks—are sold, 
much as pistachio nuts were in Roumania. At Cap¬ 
istrano (Cap-iss-trah'no), too, where now there are 
only some old adobe houses, with the Mexican women 
at work on their blankets, and a few modern homes, 
recollections of Verne, and also of “Two Years Before 
the Mast” are brought vividly to mind, while the an¬ 
cient ’dobe ruins of a mission are to be seen from 
the cars. 

By and by we strike the sea and follow it along to 
our destination. The track is built almost at the 
water’s edge; in fact in places lagoons run in under 
it, and here the wild ducks rise in flocks as the cars 
whirl by. Sunset on the broad, shipless ocean is most 
beautiful, as seen from the train, the water turning 
from green to blue, and wonderful cloud forms rising 


96 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


on the horizon. Night, however, comes on quite 
suddenly and when we reach San Diego at 6:20 P. M., 
it is very dark. 


THE CITY OF SAN DIEGO 

San Diego is by no means as large a city statis¬ 
tically as it seems geographically. In fact, we 
cannot recall a town that stretches out so far in pro¬ 
portion to its population. 

Our first task, however, is to take the ’bus for 
one of the famous tourist hotels on the heights, where 
our rooms are on the ground floor, so that we just 
step across the hall to dine. We shall long enjoy the 
recollection of our first night in San Diego. Wish¬ 
ing to call on a friend here, met on another Little 
Journey , we walk out upon the quiet streets under a 
clear full moon. 

It is a strange feature of our sight-seeing that we 
cannot lay out a definite plan, but must often take 
events as chance wills. So on the very first morning 
of our stay at San Diego we learn that an excursion 
party is to leave by wagonette for Tia Juana (Tee'ah 
Wah'nah), or, as it is translated from the Mexican, 
“Aunt Jane,”—just over the Mexican border—and 
that it will be well for us to join it. 

The recollection of our former Little Journey to 
Mexico rises up, and we excuse ourselves for again 
crossing the border with the thought that we did not 
at that time get so far up into northwestern Mexico 
as we now are, and so we go. 

On our way to the rendezvous, we note in the pretty 
gardens of San Diego great wicker cages filled with 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


97 



TIA JUANA 


song-birds that carol here, out in the open air, all 
the year round. 

At nine we leave, a fairly jolly crowd aboard. In 
riding out of San Diego, we note the great number of 
wares exposed on the walks before the stores, a custom 
reminding us of our European journeys. Occasionally 
too, a very high electric light tower rises up, as in 
Detroit.* San Diego looks like a young city, owing 
to the many vacant lots. 

By and by, we overlook San Diego Bay, for which 
such great things are predicted when once the Panama 
Canal is dug and this becomes the first port cf entry 
for Uncle Sam from the south. A revenue cutter lies 


*See Little Journey to The Great Lakes. 






98 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


out in the bay, having been engaged in stopping the 
constant smuggling in of Chinamen from Mexico 
along this border. 

Flowers are in blossom everywhere, almonds and 
trumpet vines, and for background there are ever 
the lofty mountains on the border between this country 
and Mexico,—mountains that rise up into the clouds. 

Presently we strike the old national road, and 
overlook a low, scrubby plain which extends to those 
distant peaks. 

When we have driven four and a half miles from 
the court-house we pass at last out of San Diego. It 
is about twenty-four miles to the opposite limit of the 
town. 

Out of San Diego, we are in National City, its main 
thoroughfare hemmed in by tall eucalyptus (u-ka-lip'- 
tus) trees—trees with a leaf like that of a willow, and 
great bunches of black seeds set in clusters like grapes. 
In these trees, among the dark leaves, one often finds 
a lighter grey variety of leaf, looking like that of an 
entirely different species of tree. 

The homes of National City, “The Bottom of our 
Country,” according to the maps, are rather suburban 
places, set in great gardens and interspersed with 
meadows where cattle graze. For a village or over¬ 
grown hamlet too, this place spreads out quite tedi¬ 
ously, and by and by we are in open country. We 
realize that we have left the city at last and are out 
in the Sweetwater Valley. Eight or ten miles off Uncle 
Sam is building a great irrigation dam for this valley. 

The country is still the rolling green meadow land, 
with scattered homes and orange groves. Many of 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


99 


these groves, we note, are edged with tall, densely 
set fir trees, often cut down into hedges, whose chief 
purpose is to keep out the sea-wind, which causes the 
trees to scale. Here and there in the groves we see 
grooves that look like the runs down which the ball 
is returned in a bowling-alley. These are the remains 
of an irrigation system installed at one time when the 
Sweetwater River went dry. 

At last we halt at Nestor, a quaint little cross¬ 
roads settlement, where we find the most southerly 
candy store in Uncle Sam’s dominions. The place 
is known as the Pea Nut Office, for very brown peanuts 
are sold to tourists here at a dime a bag, by a queer 
old man, from behind the four shelves of jars in the 
window. We jot his sign down as we halt,—“Fresh 
Roasted Pea Nuts and Fresh Nuts. Popcorn and 
Sweet Cider. Ice for Sale. Notary Public. Real 
Estate and Soda-Water.” 

At about twenty minutes to twelve we strike the 
hills, and follow them along until a great valley opens, 
enclosing the town of Tia Juana. 

Mexico’s most northwestern town 

Tia Juana is a very small place, with horses and cattle 
grazing outside as they do about some Bedouin en¬ 
campment, and the little town seeming to be grouped 
about the bull-ring. 

The houses are mere shanties of one or two rooms, 
whitewashed. Round them play dark-skinned children 
with touseled hair, who look like Indians. Against 
the house walls red blankets hang to air. There is a 
school with four doors at the front and four windows 


100 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



between them, in which Spanish and the making of 
drawn-work are the principal studies. 

Practically every place has a flag-staff, but we see 
no flags. The custom-house is a shed somewhat more 
freshly painted than the rest; the old man in charge 
simply looks into our wagon and calls, “All right!” 

First, of course, 
we -go to the dirty 
little hotel. A din¬ 
ing-room opens on 
one side of the 
hall, a souvenir 
store on the other. 
In the former the 
tables are spread 
with red cloths, 
and each plate is 
turned down upon 
the tip of the 
knife. For dinner 
we are waited on 
by a boy of fifteen 
and his sister, who 
speak English 
well. We are 
served chili-con- 
carne, but otherwise the meal is an American one. 

Then we look over the rest of the town. We count 
just six main stores, each of one room and each with 
sign-board high up over it, which in turn is surmounted 
by a flag-pole. Practically the chief revenue of the 
place is derived from the tourist, and there are raffia 


MEXICAN TYPE 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


101 


baskets of gay design, blankets, hats, drawn-work,feather 
pictures and pottery for sale. Graphophones which 
play plaintive Spanish airs, principally “La Paloma,” 
are to be heard. We enjoy our stroll greatly. 

Had we time, we might join a hunting expedition 
into northernmost Mexico, or go to the Agua Caliente 
(Ah'gwah Kah-le-en'teh) Hot Springs, two and a half 
miles distant. 

Instead, however, we ride back across the line to 
the American town of Ti (Tee—to differentiate from 
the Mexican “Tia”) Juana, just over the river, where 
countless sheep feed on the burr-clover. Not less 
than six thousand dollars was paid to our government 
in one month by Frenchmen as duty on stock. We 
also see some of the wild burros captured in the 
Mexican mountains close by, and then stop to read 
the inscription on the border monument. A station 
of the border patrol, too, interests us, and then 
we pass back into our own country by way of the 
American custom-house. 

The road is very similar to that by which we came, 
but the tedium is lightened by tales of smuggling 
which various passengers recount. 

When we return to San Diego we are very tired 
and quite ready for early bed-time. 

A SAUNTER IN SAN DIEGO 

Realizing that we have not yet seen San Diego itself, 
our resolution, before falling asleep, is to devote the 
next morning to that purpose. 

Bright and early, therefore, we are up, to “do” 
Uncle Sam’s most southwesterly city. We have, how- 


102 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


ever, first a letter to write and we note that the letter¬ 
head provided by the hotel has at the top, ‘ The 

temperature here today is-•>” for if there is one 

thing of which these people are proud, and rightly, it is 
their wonderful climate. Passing down to the town, 
we skirt a park of about fourteen hundred acres, catch 
a glimpse of the home of General Grant and then are 
attracted by the gardens, in which residents have 
erected great cages for singing-birds like those in 
the story of the “ Three Sisters ” in the Arabian Nights. 
Even in the heart of town we find similar cages, often 
with the upper part of glass to protect the birds in 
the cooler night-time, the perches being built up there. 
We note here, too, that the front of the grocery stores 
is of fine wire screening instead of glass. This is to 
allow constant circulation of air. Another little 
oddity that attracts our eye is the fact that the cement 
pavements have the edge raised possibly an inch, 
so as to retain rain-water and cause it to flow evenly 
down. Everywhere there are real-estate offices and 
saloons, and the latter are indicated by a series of 
napkins hung from the bar. 

The very long residence streets lead off from the 
court-house; the houses are of frame and built grad¬ 
ually up the heights, so as to overlook the bay. Every¬ 
where the love of flowers is apparent, and roses, nas¬ 
turtiums and lilies bloom luxuriantly in these balmy 
February days. 

Here, as at Venice, we find a shop of quaint kelp 
ornaments, and then there are shops where, as at Santa 
Monica, shells are ground. We come at last to the 
bay, at one end of the town. There is a park in which 



OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


103 


we see soixie fine date palms. The bay is dotted with 
the yachts of the local yacht club, awaiting their 
several owners. Before returning to D Street, the 
main thoroughfare of the city, we shall wish to patron¬ 
ize the great bath-house, built in Moorish style, which 
is here. 

On our way back to the heart of the city we notice 
a curio store, with this quaint sign, “George Wash¬ 
ington cut a cherry tree. We tried to get the hatchet.” 
We also take a snap-shot of the Isis (Eye'siss) Temple 
Theater, the property of the Theosophists, of whom 
we shall learn more, later on, at Point Loma. Nor can 
' a visit to the gem stores for which this section is 
famous be omitted. 

GEMS OF THE SOUTHWEST 

Besides the abalone pearls, of the roseate hue of an 
abalone, there are also the large, scaly, irregular fresh¬ 
water pearls, while California moon-stones, polished 
jasper, rubies from the Navajo (Nah'vah-ho) reser¬ 
vation, smoky topaz from mines about thirty-five 
miles away, black tourmaline and the famous kunzite , 
a pale lavender diamond to be found, it is said, no¬ 
where else on earth, are all to be seen in profusion. We 
also see turquoise arrow-points made by the Navajos. 
Having explored the various shops, we find ourselves 
again at the bay, wnere we hear the bells on ten war¬ 
ships of the Pacific squadron of Uncle Sam’s fleet, 
which frequently puts in here. As we have already 
said, when the Panama Canal is completed San Diego 
Bay will be the first port of entry on our west coast 
from that waterway; hence it may have a great 


104 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



future. An old wooden man-of-war, the Pina Pinta , 
with its square windows and two heavy masts, its 
smoke-stacks all rusted and the whole sadly in need 
of paint, is tied up here as headquarters for the naval 
reserves, in quiet contrast to the great warships, the 
black torpedoes and the cruisers in the bay. Off 
across the water rises the famous winter resort, Coro¬ 
nado (Kor-o-nay'dough) Beach. 

CORONADO BEACH 

We take the ferry for Coronado, and the trip across 
the bay reminds us of that which we made at Boston, 
to and from Winthrop, on our New England Little 
Journey. Stepping off at the Beach, as it is called, 


CORONADO 





OTJR WESTERN WONDERLAND 105 

we stop to visit the two torpedo boats which are 
close in to shore, where the men are at dinner at a long 
table stretched under an awning on deck. 

Then we walk up the main avenue of Coronado, the 
street car track in the center of the road, palms to 
right and left of it, and then the roadway, and after 
these the arbor vitae and the walk. Here, too, real- 
estate subdivisions make up the greater part of the 
route until we reach a famous park, filled with curious 
pines heavy with cones, and yellow-blossoming trees, 
resembling the haw. Here open the grounds of one 
of the most famous hotels in the world. We come 
just in season for dinner and step at once into the 
great vaulted dining-room, a magnificent hall fit to 
be the Walhalla (Vahl-hahl'lah) of Norse legend, where 
the favored spirits of the mighty Vikings could carouse. 
The sides of this vast arched chamber are of natural 
woods, set in tiny little strips, forming various geo¬ 
metrical patterns. A balcony for the uniformed 
orchestra, projecting at one side, alone breaks the 
severity of the contour. Below, Chinese boys scurry 
about, taking out the dishes, while white waitresses, 
in blue dimity dresses with neat white collars, serve. 
At one end of the room is a switch-board communicat¬ 
ing with the retiring-room; a girl presses different 
buttons and thus announces to the waiters the arrival 
of the people they are to serve. The magnificence, 
fashion and style always manifest here, the life and 
the bustle (for the hotel is equipped with seven hun¬ 
dred and fifty rooms and can accommodate a thousand 
people, though the seats in the dining-room are for 
but six hundred), are really worth having come to see. 


106 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


We shall want, then, thoroughly to explore the hotel 
with its adjacent buildings, the plunge, with the “sea¬ 
horses” to ride, the tent city on the neck of land run¬ 
ning far out into the sea, and then to stroll out as far 
as this far-stretching reef reaches into the sea, sO that 
we may catch a closer glimpse of the Coronado Islands 
away out in the ocean. By and by we return to the 
hotel, where we may meet some former fellow-travelers. 
Then, as evening comes on, we take a little summer 
car, with the two benches set with their backs to a 
central aisle down which the conductor comes to 
collect his fares, back to the wharf, and there the 
ferry to San Diego. In the evening we may be fortu¬ 
nate enough to gain admission to a t}^pical home in 
this most southwesterly city of the republic, a peep 
we shall heartily enjoy, but which will only serve to 
show that American homes are very much alike all 
over the country. 

A DANGEROUS EXCURSION TO THE CORNER 
OF THE REPUBLIC 

There is one excursion out from San Diego which we 
as good travelers will make, though it is not taken by 
most tourists, as it is expensive and requires too much 
time. This is to the extreme southwest corner of 
the country, where the United States, Mexico and the 
Pacific meet. 

In order to make this trip, it will be necessary first 
to get a permit from the alcalde (ahl-kahkde) at Tia 
Juana, since that section of the country is a center for 
the smuggling in of Chinamen, and it is only one who 
has some such purpose in mind who would be likely 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


107 


to go there. In fact, smugglers, persons fleeing from 
the United States to Mexico, where they cannot be 
arrested and brought back for certain crimes, and 
again, in turn, Mexicans who have fled to our country 
for the same reason, are the principal travelers. Now 
and then a company of tourists will make the trip in 



EXTREME SOUTHWEST CORNER OF OUR COUNTRY 


order to gather shells on the beach, just below the 
Mexican line; but without the permit, these are liable 
to arrest by the border police of either nation. 

Except for the fact that we make better time when 
not stopping to see things we have seen before, the ride 
to Nestor is much the same as it was on the other ex¬ 
cursion. Meantime our driver, who served under 





108 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Farragut, tells of how he occasionally takes passengers 
as far as the Mexican line, where they stop to con¬ 
verse with others who have come a like distance to 
meet them, neither party daring to go over the border. 
Again, he will carry men to connect with the stage 
running on down the coast to Incinata (In-sin-ah'tah). 

At a sign beyond Nestor, thirteen and a half miles 
from San Diego and three to Tia Juana, instead of 
turning to the left and driving parallel with the moun¬ 
tains, we follow the chain at its base. Down here 
there is a school-house of a single room set right up 
against the mountain side and with a flag on the top. 
Outside at the pump the boys and girls gather, per¬ 
fectly indifferent to the fact that their school-house 
is the most southwesterly of all those in Uncle Sam’s 
dominions. This is a mile and a quarter from Nestor. 

Every house after this is interesting, for we are 
looking for the last inhabitant. It is very lonely out 
here, with only the mocking-birds, the cypresses, and 
in the road the yellow California poppies. Now and 
then a jack-rabbit or a squirrel leaps across the way, 
and we note the gopher holes in the ground in among 
the wild cucumber vines and low-growing ice plants, 
their thick beet-shaped leaves covered with great drops, 
as on a sweating ice pitcher; the wild cyclamen, 
too, attracts our attention. Otherwise there is only 
the wild, rolling, half-cultivated border land. By and 
by, we see the surf leaping high off on the coast, and 
we know we are coming close to the goal. We pass 
through ravines and valleys enclosed by low buttes, 
and then come out on rising ground where there is a 
great deserted Mexican homestead. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 109 

It begins to rain about this time and the luncheon 
hour is near, so we camp here, at the first house over 
the line. The place, utterly deserted, has an air of 
romance, about it, with its empty rooms and falling 
wall paper. From it we look out on the wild, angry 
sea with the fog rolling in, and then landward to the 



BOUNDARY MONUMENT, EXTREME SOUTHWEST CORNER OF THE 
UNITED STATES 

The man has one foot in Mexico, one in California, and the Pacific Ocean behind him 


valley stretching away into the distance, all the 
United States to our north and east. It is all most 
impressive despite the rain-storm. 

When the shower has ceased, we drive on to the 
country’s “ corner.” This is marked by a monument 
similar to the one we saw near Tia Juana—a great 
marble structure enclosed by a grating and bearing 






110 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


inscriptions in Spanish and English, which impress 
us strangely as we copy them. This is the English 
version: 


Initial Monument 
of Boundary Between 
The United States and Mexico 
Established by Joint Commission 
October 10, 1849 

Agreeably to the Treaty Dated at the 
City of Guadalupe Hidalgo 
February 27, 1848 
Jn. G. Wilber, U. S. Commissioner 
Andrew B. Gray, U. S. Surveyor 


After we have inspected this to our satisfaction, 
we gather shells on the sand and also wild flowers, of 
which there are here innumerable varieties. Away 
off from the road, out on the plain, is the last house 
on this side of the border. By and by we meet Uncle 
Sam’s most southwesterly servant, a rural free delivery 
rider named Sinclair, whose route lies out from Nestor. 
The most southwesterly inhabitant, he tells us, is one 
Michael O’Brien, aged sixty years, who lives in a 
little cottage out on the plain. O’Brien, having been 
first a sailor, started in New York as a butcher. Then 
he drifted down here and is now living a hermit life, 
having once been quite wealthy. He has a little 
cabin and with his single burro he gathers kelp to sell 
to ornament makers. 

The ride back is decidedly pleasant in the setting 
sun, through the meadows glittering with rain-drops, 
the meadow larks singing a song of triumph as we 
enter San Diego after having been to the extreme 
southwest corner of the country. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


111 


HARNESSING THE TIDES 

We have had a good deal of carriage riding now, and 
so again devote ourselves to prowling about San 
Diego. We can wander again among the gem shops, 
where we are certain to find something new and of 
interest. Then we can go on to the exhibition room 
of the Chamber of Commerce, where a unique ap¬ 
paratus for harnessing the tides is on exhibition. 
It consists of a series of diamond-shaped paddles, 
built by driving piles into the sea-bed, and between 
these piers are placed tread-mills, which consist of 
endless chains of floats. The end of each mill, then, 
is inclined down into the water below the low-tide 
mark on the one end, and above it on the other. The 



UNCLE SAM’S MOST SOUTHWESTERLY SERVANT 




112 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


waves washing on the shore are forced over the top 
of these tread-mills, thus setting in motion the paddles 
and causing them to drive air pumps which com¬ 
press the air in tanks to be used to drive engines and 
dynamos, which, in their turn, will generate electricity. 

Here, too, we find innumerable maps serving to 
show the importance San Diego is going to assume 



ENTRANCE TO POINT LOMA 


when once the Panama Canal is built. There are also 
exhibitions of the local silk culture, for which the 
equable climate has made San Diego especially adapt¬ 
able, since the temperature here has fallen below 
thirty-two degrees but four times in recorded history. 
Of this, however, we shall prefer to hear more when we 
visit the “ little old lady of the silk worms,” 








OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


113 


THE LITTLE OLD LADY OF THE SILK WORMS 

This queer old lady has her rooms on the second floor 
of an adjoining building. As we call on her, we find 
her to be a sort of “ Mistress Blasket” come back 
to life, with her hair parted in the middle and held by 
a large old-fashioned comb. She wears a loose red 
Mother Hubbard and a very old-fashioned breastpin. 
Everywhere about her are silk worms, in every stage 
of their brief careers. The eggs of the worms, she 
tells us, are shipped from Japan, on heavy paper, 
or else from France in round cardboard boxes, per¬ 
forated to admit the air, and they bring about five 
dollars a thousand. They may be kept in cold 
storage twelve months, but as soon as removed 
will hatch in from two weeks to six months; why 
some of them take so long no one seems to know. 
One miller lays from two hundred and fifty to six 
hundred eggs. Those that are about to hatch are 
grey-blue. After hatching the shells are white. Worms 
just out of the egg are perhaps a tenth of a millimeter 
in length, and of the thickness of a hair. They feed 
immediately on the leaves of the mulberry, growing 
so rapidly that at the age of twenty-four days they 
will be four inches long, and after thirty-one days 
are ready to have the silk taken. 

Then it is that they make their cocoons, ceasing to 
eat, and being placed in excelsior, so as to spin their 
little homes, a work that it takes three days to com¬ 
plete. When done, the cocoon is steeped in boiling water 
to prevent the worm eating its way out and so cutting 
the silk. Then one end of the long silk thread (for 


114 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


all the cocoon is of a single thread) is seized upon a 
stick and reeled off. 

Here at San Diego it is then made into tiny tea- 
sets, into valentines and into a series showing the 
several stages of the silk worm’s life, for use in the 
schools. From two hundred and twenty to eighteen 
hundred yards of silk may be obtained from a single 
cocoon. The silk itself is secreted in a little tube 
of the worm’s body, coming out through two small 
holes in the lower jaw, as two fine threads, which the 
worm twists into one as he forms his cocoon. 

In the shops of San Diego, too, we are interested 
in photographs of the funeral of the victims of the 
Bennington, which exploded in this harbor a few 
years ago as the result of the commander’s careless¬ 
ness, and with a loss of thirty lives. 

POINT LOMA AND THE THEOSOPHISTS 

We cannot leave San Diego without one more carriage 
excursion, that to Point Loma, the home of the The- 
osophists of the United States. This place became 
prominent in the public eye when ex-Secretary of the 
Treasury Gage went there to live, but it is so beauti¬ 
ful and so unique in its architecture that we wonder 
it was not better known before. 

We follow the shore of the bay around until ahead 
there comes in sight on the heights what seems a 
sort of temple, with great Doric front, standing out 
from afar. Behind this is a great glass dome with 
a smaller globe on top, and toward this we ride on. 
Here begins the farm of the Society, the whole enclosed 
by a neat white fence decorated with growing ivy. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


115 


Coming to the entrance, where there is a tent city, 
we drive on to the great white gate, Hindu in style, 
which admits to the main grounds. A splendid road, 
flanked with beds of the pink vine geranium, and 
back of these the date palms hiding from view almond 
orchards and growing barley or oats, leads up the hill- 



GATE TO THEOSOPHIST HEADQUARTERS AT POINT LOMA 


slope to the top, where there is a semi-monastic, semi- 
romantic building which is the headquarters of the 
Association—the glass dome which we saw from 
afar, its center surmounted by another cupola; in 
front of these stands another dome, lavender in color. 
At the two corners are turrets which give a somewhat 
conventional appearance to the whole. 






116 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


At the head of the lane a guide meets us. He, like 
all the other men here, is attired in a brown khaki suit 
much like those worn by the rough riders. The land 
for four and a half miles along the coast, he tells us, 
is owned by the Society, as headquarters for the inter¬ 
national brotherhood. Over this Madame Tingley, 
as head of the Society, presides. No one, however, 
receives any pay, and persons come here simply be¬ 
cause they are attracted by an interest in the work. 
Those who are in a position so to do, support them¬ 
selves financially besides. Children, too, are brought 
here from all over the world, some from different 
local lodges, some from afar, to be taught by the so- 
called Raja Yoga (Rah'jah Yoh'gah) system of in¬ 
struction, which develops the child mentally, morally 
and physically in equal degrees. School hours, as we 
usually understand the term, really consume but two 
hours and a half a day. 

Meantime, however, we have arrived at the main 
domed building, known as the Homestead. This 
building is devoted to lower class-rooms and studios, 
on the ground floor, and to the dormitories of the 
girls above. As there are some three hundred chil¬ 
dren on the place, a good deal of room is needed. 
Children are divided into groups of six or eight each, 
and each group is accompanied by a sort of tutor, 
and a nurse, in the cases of the smaller, who remain 
with them constantly. 

Continuing, we pass a number of pretty bung¬ 
alows of the Theosophists, some of them used by 
the boys in their work, for the lads live in groups in 
the bungalows with their teachers. These bungalows, 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


117 


of a peculiar ventilation and construction, were devised 
by Madame Tingley herself. The Theosophists, we 
learn, do all their own work here, not only the carpen¬ 
try, plumbing and the rest, but also the management 
of the chemical works, the dye plant, etc. There are 
about as many adults as there are children, between 
two hundred and fifty and three hundred in all. Many 
more of the organization would greatly like to come 
here, but there is so much difficulty in maintaining 
those whose presence is felt to be absolutely necessary 
to the place, that a rigid selection has to be made. 

Beyond the bungalows there is a great natural 
amphitheater, the seats (of wood now, but to be re¬ 
placed by stone) facing the sea near by and the 
hills that round off to the beach. Beyond, on the 
brow of the hill, another tent camp, largely for literary 
devotees, crowns the prospect. 

Before leaving, we step into one of the home 
bungalows, that of a Miss White, an artist, to enjoy 
the quaint, rustic and at the same time artistic fur¬ 
nishings, and envy her the prospect from her window 
out over the gardens to the sea. Spalding, too, the 
famous sporting-goods man, has a home here which 
we see on our way. 

DINNER IN A LIGHT-HOUSE 

Leaving the Theosophists we continue our ride 
over the strip of land that connects what is practically 
a mammoth island with the mainland and with Point 
Loma itself. Ahead we can see the Coronado Islands 
rising dim in the fog, while just ahead the surf dashes 
upon the bluff. Here, too, we may see the tallest 



118 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 

light-house in the United States, which stands four 
hundred and twenty-two feet above the level of the 
sea. This, however, was too high above the fogs 
and hence was abandoned, and about twelve years 
ago Uncle Sam erected a new light-house here, which 
is the most southwesterly one in the country. This 


POINT LOMA LIGHT 

has two keepers, each with his home close by, and on 
alternate days these serve meals consisting of 
bread, bologna and coffee. We prefer the luncheon 
we have brought, but we want some coffee to warm 
us and for this are charged the full price of a meal, 
thirty-five cents apiece—rather dear for a cup of 
coffee, is it not? But then we enjoy hearing the old 
light-house keeper tell of his service under Farragut, 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 119 

and having him point out to us the guns and the cut¬ 
lasses on the walls and show us his curiosities—dried 
and pressed pink seaweed, newly ground abalones, 
and most interesting of all, a photograph of the Golden 
Gate at San Francisco taken on the one day of the 
year when the sun sets exactly in the center. 

Then we saunter out to a rocky cove, in which, 
perhaps twenty feet below, the seal play in the waters, 
while far out at sea the Coronado Islands are now 
clearly visible. 

OLD TOWN AND THE HOME OF RAMONA 

Our way back is practically the same as that 
by which we came, save that we make a circuit 
to visit Old Town, a mere hamlet, whose yellow ’dobe 
church, boarded over outside, and still used, is in¬ 
teresting as being the one in which “Ramona” is 
said to have been married. 

Returning to the hotel in San Diego, we are sur¬ 
prised to meet a Pullman conductor whose aunt is 
teacher at the mission school of Samokov, visited on 
our Bulgarian Little Journey. 

We are now prepared to bid the city of San Diego, 
and in fact the great Southwest, farewell. We might 
go on to El Cajon (Cah-hone') to see the raisin vineyards, 
but we shall find larger specimens of these at San 
Francisco, and the rain prevents our excursion to the 
pastures of the Coronado Islands. Consequently, we 
leave by morning train at 8:40 for Los Angeles, where 
we arrive at one o’clock. We stop only long enough 
to get some things left in check at the hotel and then 
again board the train for the North. We are now start- 


120 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


ing on a railroad journey of four hundred and eighty- 
four miles, which will bring us to San Francisco. 

Our route is along the Los Angeles River, named 
by Porciuncula in 1769, and in plain sight of the 
pigeon ranch visited before. The rolling hills, covered 
with vineyards, give way to mountains on the right. 
Of these mountains we shall see a good deal for some 
time, for our first stop is to be Santa Barbara, a hun¬ 
dred and ten miles from Los Angeles. On the way 
there is not very much to attract our attention. At 
Oxnard (Ox-nard) there is a huge beet-sugar manu¬ 
factory, and at Fernando (Fur-nan'do) we see 
the site of the mission San Fernando, founded by 
Father Dumetz in 1797. If we are interested in our 
geography we shall note on the south the Sierra de 
Santa Monica, on the west the Santa Sussanna, on 
the north the San Fernando Mountains. We see, as 
we go by, neat country towns of frame churches and 
scattered buildings, then pass through the Sylma 
olive grove, the greatest in the world. Beautiful 
long lines of trees rise from the barren ground and 
then we are in a tunnel, which will remind those of us 
who made the Little Journey to Switzerland of the 
St. Gotthard. This tunnel, piercing the narrowest 
section of the San Fernando Range, is a mile and a 
half in length and it seems to us that it takes a good 
five minutes to traverse it. Emerging, we are in the 
famous Santa Clara Valley. 

THE SANTA CLARA VALLEY 

This is known as the fruit garden of the world. Here 
at the outskirts we are in the petroleum country, a 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 121 

more open valley with the mountains all about. At 
Saugus a line runs off to the San Joaquin (San Wah- 
keen) Valley, which we shall visit later on. The 
Santa Clara River winds its course among buttes in 
the valley. Even in the tree-tops there is unlooked- 
for “fruit”—great green bunches of the mistletoe. 
Then, at Camolus (Kam-o-lus), a mere cluster of 
houses among orange and olive groves, we have 
the scene of Helen Hunt Jackson’s “Ramona” 
pointed out to us. Here was situated the Morena 
(Mo-re'na) Ranch, which was Ramona’s home, 
and here one may still see the artichoke patch, 
the chapel and dormitories and the kitchen described 
in the book, and the corrals that marked the starting 
point of Ramona’s midnight flight to the sheltering 
canon at the east. 

At Camolus it seems as though we were at the 
end of the great broad mountain valley. Hundreds 
of cattle browse here and there; we see some of the 
famous long-horned steers which are so abundant in 
Texas. Almonds are in blossom, and there are pome¬ 
granates and figs and oranges, with here and there an 
apiary. At Piru (Pe'roo), a small settlement at which 
our train stops, there are lemon trees. Chinamen 
have gathered at the station to watch the train come 
in. Gre^it English walnut orchards, their boughs a 
pale brown pink in the distance, also begin to appear. 
Irrigation canals stretch hither and thither among 
the trees, and then for miles and miles there seem 
to be only the walnut orchards. Where all this fruit 
will finally be consumed is a question which we are 
not able to solve. 


122 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



As afternoon lengthens and turns to dusk the 
beautiful cloud-forms that appear on the sky line 
make us more and more delighted with this region. 
Among some pear groves there is a town with a name 
that interests us—Montalvo (Mon-tahl'vo). It was 
Edward Everett Hale who discovered in a romance 
by one Odonez de Montalvo, bearing date of 1510, 


OLD MISSION, SANTA BARBARA 

the first use of the name California. The town re¬ 
ceived its name in commemoration of this. 

At five minutes to six we reach the shores of the 
Pacific. The sight at low tide in the dusk is very 
beautiful. San Buenaventura (Boo-en'ah-ven-too'rah) 
is here, hemmed in by mountains, and almost as quiet 
as when the Spanish explorers came here in 1782, 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


123 


and Father Serra founded the Mission San Buenaven¬ 
tura. Out at sea we can discern Anacopa (Ah-na- 
ko'pah) Island, one of the Santa Barbara Channel 
group, dim, but not quite so much so .as the other 
more distant islands. 

A section of apricots and almonds and walnuts 
follows, and then, in the night, we ride through 
Summerland to Santa Barbara. 

We go by ’bus to the hotel, arrange our notes and 
then to bed, that we may have an early start on the 
morrow. Our first ramble in Santa Barbara will 
long be remembered. We enjoy the stores along the 
main street with their innumerable novelties, lamp 
shades made of abalone shells, other shells of a deep 
blue worked upon pillows; Japanese stores with novel¬ 
ties from far Cathay, and then the series of one-story 
shops with the roof extending above the walk to poles 
set along the curb. In the groceries curious custard 
apples are for sale, and in the candy stores we see 
watches made entirely of sweets. There is an odd green- 
painted restaurant, its portico shaded by a very fine 
grape vine. After our ramble we go on to the 
famous De la Guerra mansion. 

This house is one of the relics of the oldest 
time. It is a large one-story building forming three 
sides of a square, and is typically Spanish in its style, 
with the roof of red tiles except just over the 
porch, where it slants more and is of shingle resem¬ 
bling slate. On this porch the doors and windows 
open in very quaint style. This is the home of one 
of the famous families, descendants of Spanish grandees, 
which are still to be met with at Santa Barbara. 


124 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Of the De la Guerras, we learn, there is now but one 
son left, and he, true to the ancestral teachings, 
considers it “beneath” him to work. The original 
De la Guerra came to Santa Barbara in 1786 with the 
expedition of friars that was sent to this place. At 
that time people took what land they desired, although 
later permission had to be obtained. De la Guerra 
got about five thousand acres, but he, like most of 
the old grandees, failed to understand the laws apply¬ 
ing to the land and gradually was defrauded of large 
parts of it. Many of these old grandees, too, De la 
Guerra among the number, had much of their weatlh 
in herds and flocks, and the killing place for these 
was of considerable size. Dana alludes to this in his 
“Two Years Before the Mast.” When a boat, such 
as Dana’s Pilgrim, would come in, the grandees 
would trade sugar and coffee, tea and flour, as well 
as pelts and tallow. They used also to hold daily 
audience, when any poor person in distress could 
apply to them, and when such presented himself 
the grandee would call his servants and order them 
to bestow rice and other necessities on the applicant. 
De la Guerra thus obtained for himself great influence 
and was known as the grandee of the town, and even 
to this day some of the older inhabitants take off 
their hats when passing the home of the present 
representative. 

We drop into the little newspaper office at Santa 
Barbara for more information about the place. We 
find that the famous flower festivals for which it was 
once renowned are no longer held, being too expensive, 
and also because it was impossible to compete with 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 125 

those of Pasadena. Then we ask about the native 
products. We learn that at Alcatraz (Al-ka-traz'), 
some eight miles away, asphalt was found but 
recently. Also that this locality produces the famous 
“ice cream fruit,” which resembles the alligator pear, 
and grows upon trees fifteen to twenty feet high. 
Santa Barbara, however, appears to us to be distin¬ 
guished chiefly for having more livery stable carriages 
and horses than any city of twice the inhabitants on 
the continent. So numerous are they that enough 
provender cannot be raised in the vicinity, and quan¬ 
tities have to be imported. 

We saunter up the main streets of this typical 
tourist city. We notice in the shadows cast by the 
overhanging roofs stands where papers of all the large 
cities are on sale. Then we board an electric car and 
make for the sea and the great hotel of Santa Bar¬ 
bara. This hostelry is built in mission style and one 
side of the grounds strikes us at'once. It contains 
a huge bed of blooming callas, countless hundreds 
of the beautiful flowers being stretched out here, 
while great borders of yellow chrysanthemums, and 
then of red geraniums, flank these and stretch on to 
the sea walk. 


A DOG HOTEL 

One feature of especial interest to us in this place 
is a “dog hotel” for the dogs of the guests, capable 
of holding fifty canines, though there are seldom more 
than four or five here at a time. No charge is made 
for their care. 

We enjoy sitting on the piazzas of the hotel and 


126 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


watching the sea stretching to the mountains, where 
low clouds hover, or else sauntering along the beach, 
where the sand is exquisitely clean. 

Then we take the cars back to town and inland 
toward the mountains. The mammoth palms, the hedges 
of callas, the pepper trees and the magnolias that 
surround the handsome winter residences, built in the 
mission style, tempt us to use our kodaks again and 
again, and the great drooping fuchsia shrubs and the 
red honeysuckles and the fences of white daisies charm 
us constantly. 


SANTA BARBARA MISSION 

Of course our destination is the famous old mission, 
probably today the most interesting of all the Cali¬ 
fornia missions. 

This ancient edifice stands at the end of a lane of 
pepper-trees, with the mountains for background. 
It is built of what looks like white concrete, with the 
doors outlined in red, and its characteristic note being 
given by two square domed bell-towers with a 
cross between. Beyond this extends the long 
main building, with the seventeen windows. There 
is an overhanging portico of many arches, so picturesque 
in appearance that we fall in love at once with this 
old mission, the most charming of the twenty-one 
seen on this little journey along El Camino Real. 

There is an old brother, brown-robed and hooded, 
who shows us about. First he points out the old 
mill-stone of the mission, then the nine bells turned 
by a small wheel with a handle, and then some of the 
old vellums or books, some of which are as tall as a 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


127 



three-year-old child. Old raw-hide beds, used by 
the early priests, are in one of the white-walled brick- 
floored rooms. Old parchments are shown in another, 
and then our guide leads us to the roof for the view, 
and thence around to the church proper, its interior 
a good deal like that of San Gabriel, with its simple 
benches and ancient pictures. From here he takes us 


PORCH AT SANTA BARBARA MISSION 

to the enclosed cemetery at one side the church, 
in which innumerable Indians are buried. Today, 
however, no mounds are visible, though here and 
there a wooden cross or an old stone tomb marks 
the grave of some Spanish grandee. It is stated that 
not less than four thousand Indians, victims of an 
epidemic, are interred here. 







128 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Today there are about thirty-five brothers in charge 
at Santa Barbara’s mission. These are under a 
Guardian or Superior. The headquarters of the Order 
which controls the mission—the Order of St. Francis 
of Assissi, of whom we heard on our European Little 
Journeys —is at Rome. The mission lies in the prov¬ 
ince of St. Louis, where the Provencal or Superior 
over all the California missions has his see. There 
is not a very large congregation here, only about a 
hundred families; regular services are, however, main¬ 
tained. It is principally the old and sick brothers 
who are sent to this convent, and they show the 
tourists about. No woman except the wife of the 
President or of a governor may enter their quarters 
at the mission. 

OIL TAKEN FROM THE SEA 

We return by car to Santa Barbara for dinner at 
another of the big hotels, up whose portico there climbs 
the largest rose-bush in the world. 

Then, the last bit of Welsh rarebit disposed of, 
we engage a carriage for Summerland, where, on 
the advice of some spiritualists, wells were sunk out 
in the sea-bed and oil has been struck. As this is the 
city of vehicles, we are interested in the price—two 
dollars for the afternoon, with driver. 

Our route will run parallel to the sea, with ducks on 
the waves in the foreground, and out in the dim dis¬ 
tance the Santa Barbara Islands just visible, and 
among oak groves from which the long moss hangs and 
on which galls are numerous. By and by, as we round 
a bluff, the town unfolds before us. It is a mere hamlet 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


129 


of cheap frame houses, but made beautiful by its setting 
at the very edge of the vast expanse of open ocean. 
Innumerable oil derricks rise out of the water every¬ 
where. Piers, one of them eleven hundred feet in 
length, extend into the sea, and at each side of these 
are more derricks. Latterly, however, the govern- 



OIL WELLS IN THE PACIFIC, SUMMERLAND 


ment has ruled that beyond six hundred feet from 
shore no derricks may be built. 

Buying a piece of land on the coast entitles one to 
go out into the sea for oil. A “conductor” pipe, 
twelve or thirteen inches in diameter, is put down, 
being driven through the sand into the clay beneath. 
This shuts off the ocean water, and then a pipe nine 
and five-eighths inches across goes down until oil 







130 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


is struck. After that, a third pipe of smaller circum¬ 
ference is sunk. As the oil is in the sand, the latter 
is pumped out until the petroleum becomes clearer, 
when the regular two-inch piping is inserted. A well 
of this sort may be put in working order in a week, 
derricks being erected on piles seven feet in depth. 
When pumping begins, an average of three barrels 
a day, worth- from fifty to sixty cents a barrel, is 
obtained, but as one pump can pump thirty-two 
wells, and as the engine of this is run by natural gas 
fresh from the ground, there is practically no ex¬ 
pense. Oil never appears on the surface of the sea 
here, except at well-cleaning time, or when in some 
great storm a derrick or two is knocked over, or when 
the sand breaks off the pipes. Fish cannot live in 
these waters, as the oil kills their prey. 

Over the railway tracks at Summerland we may 
step into the asphaltum factory and see how this is 
made. The oil, we find, is run into great stills like 
a boiler on its side, each holding one hundred and 
twenty-five barrelfuls. These stills are bricked about, 
and in them the oil, heated by oil, is brought to a 
temperature of 750°. The distillation is then run 
out through a condenser to be sold as fuel oil, or, 
when further treated, as gas oil, while what remains 
is the liquid asphaltum. This process takes about 
twenty hours to complete. From one hundred and 
twenty-five barrels of raw material about twenty- 
eight barrels of the finished asphaltum will be obtained, 
and while the raw oil brings about fifty cents a barrel, 
the asphaltum sells at from ten to twelve dollars a 
ton, being used principally for paving and roofing. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


131 


Returning to Santa Barbara in the evening, we look 
in on the gay throng at another of the great hotels, 
for this city is a famous winter resort, where pleasure- 
seekers from all lands congregate in the “season.” 

THE LAND OF HONEY 

As we did not wish to be put off in the night at a 
station where there was neither hotel nor tavern, 
we did not stop at Strathern (Strah-thurn), forty- 
one miles from Los Angeles, on our way here, and 
now we will make the trip, “back-tracking” sixty-four 
miles from Santa Barbara. On the train we 
meet a miner from British Columbia, who shortens 
the way by his tales of life in that region. 

We find Strathern to be nothing more than a 
platform in a lone, wide, rolling country. The train 
departs, and but for a switchman on a handcar passing 
by, we should be at a loss where to go. A wagonette 
runs from here to the neighboring town of Simi (Sim- 
me), but that has already left. 

We follow directions and walk up the track to the 
first house, for we wish to visit one of the great apiaries 
for which this region is famous. When we hail the 
owner he first looks us over, to make sure we are not 
tramps, and then invites us in. 

We ask him at once about the bees. In starting 
an apiary, “ a'pery as they call them here, he tells 
us the first step generally is to buy a colony of perhaps 
a hundred hives, worth three dollars and a half apiece. 
There are about forty thousand bees to a hive in the 
working season, but the bees’ life is very short, so nature 
has caused them to breed rapidly. The story of the 



132 A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 

hive centers about the queen bee. She is peculiar in 
that while her eggs appear like any others, she can 
lay male or female eggs at will, and does this in cells 
of different sizes, the worker cells being about one- 
fifth of an inch across, and the drone cells smaller; 
both are hexagonal. In the ordinary honey season, 


WHERE THE BEES MAKE HONEY 

when the bees are storing honey, the queen lays two 
or three hundred eggs a day, or two or three times 
her own weight in eggs. Of these the worker eggs 
hatch and reach maturity in about twenty-one days, 
hatching at first as larvae in forty-eight hours and 
remaining at this stage of development four or five 
days, when the transformation into the perfect insect 



OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 133 

begins. In the working season the life of a bee is 
very short, thirty or forty days, whereas when the 
insect is not working it is much longer. Death is due 
largely to accidents and the strain of the season. 
The bees that do not work may live to be two or 
three years old. In the spring the hives contain 
comparatively few workers, perhaps two thousand, 
and no drones at all, as these do not live over the 
winter. As soon as the flowers come the bees begin 
to work, and as there are many flowers they get a great 
amount of surplus honey; for a long time in the 
spring this is used as rapidly as gathered, and is even 
supplemented by honey kept through the winter for 
feeding the young bees, as the queen is now laying. If 
the season promises to be good, the queen begins 
laying drone eggs, she being governed by the amount 
of honey that is brought in. 

The workers are the first hatched. They mature 
in twenty-one days, and a week later begin their work 
in the field, gathering both honey and pollen, the 
latter being used to mix with honey and to feed to 
the brood. The drones, too, fly out soon after hatch¬ 
ing, but their flight is simply to mate with a chance 
queen on her so-called wedding flight. This mating 
is done high in air. 

When the queen has filled the hive with a brood 
and the bees are hatched in such numbers as to over¬ 
heat the hive, the queen feels it is time to send out 
a swarm, and if the honey season is good the old queen 
heads such a swarm, and a young queen, reared for 
this purpose in a special cell, remains in the hive 
after having gone on her wedding flight. The new 


134 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


swarm will then settle anywhere, and apiarists usually 
cut down the bough on which the bees have swarmed 
and shake them into the new hive. 

As there are queen bee eggs at all stages of incuba¬ 
tion in the hive when the old queen swarms, the 
first act of the young queen will be to go through 
the hive and sting through the cells of rival hatching 
queens and so kill them, unless she sees that the 
season is so good that there may be a second swarm, 
when she will permit one to survive. 

The queen egg cell is about the size and form of a 
peanut and the queen is fed on what is known as 
royal jelly, which is milky white and very pungent. 

A colony of bees, it is stated, will yield about two 
hundred and twenty pounds of honey a year. 

We are next led to the rough little shed which serves 
as extracting house, and here see a wheel into which 
the combs of honey are set. The tops are then shaved 
off, and the centrifugal force produced by revolving 
the wheel dashes the honey into the receptacle below, 
so that the comb may be used over and over again. 
Strangely enough, honey is seldom adulterated and 
never artificially made. The wax of which the comb 
is made is tasteless and indigestible and is no longer 
considered as having any food value. The tops and 
bottoms of the cells, after being clipped off are put 
in cases in the sun to be melted and the wax is then 
sold for commercial purposes. 

In order to inspect the hives, which are set out on 
the hillsides, we have to wear crepe veils that 
are rather annoying, and we are quite glad when, re¬ 
turning to the house, these can be laid aside. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 135 

We dine here at the honey ranch and partake of 
a typical country dinner, to which the hired man sits 
down with the family, while one and all wash hands in 
the same tin basin to prepare for it. We then spend 
the afternoon out on the porch watching two little 
girls in picturesque sunbonnets playing about with 
their dog, making mud pies and searching for mush¬ 
rooms in the broad fields that separate them from 
the nearest neighbor. We even walk over to Simi, 
a typical country village, to kill time until the train 
leaves which bears us back to Santa Barbara, whence 
we are to continue our northward march. 

THE CITY OF MUSTARD 

From honey to mustard is the transition we have 
before us, for our next destination is Lompoc (Lum- 
pock), probably the greatest mustard market in the 
world. 

The trip thither by rail is not without interest,— 
sixty-six miles to Surf, and then ten miles on a branch 
line to the town. We follow the line of the Santa 
Ynez Mountains on the one hand and the Santa Bar¬ 
bara Channel on the other. Away out to sea is San 
Miguel (Mee-gull) Island, on which Juan Rodriguez 
Cabrillo was buried January 3, 1543. The route 
follows the Comino Real once more and is that taken 
by Juan Crespi, the path-finder of Junipero Sierra. 
At Point Concepcion (Con-cept-shun) our party will be 
interested in its light-house, as well as in the wireless 
telegraph station at Arguello Point. 

At Surf, a mere station beside the sea, we dismount 
to await the branch railway for Lompoc. We enjoy 


136 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


this waiting by the open ocean, with the ospreys 
flying high above our heads. 

A brief ride brings us into Lompoc itself, a village 
of neat little frame houses, surrounded by hedges of 
cypress to cut off the wind. We see the wild mustard 
in bloom at the sides of the one main street, but look 
vainly, at this season, for the other. 



IN THE MUSTARD FIELDS 


Finally, we chance on a mustard-raiser, who tells 
us about the industry. There are two varieties of 
mustard seed, he says, the red and the yellow. The 
red brings the higher price, from three cents a pound 
up, and a fair crop of this, per acre, will be about a 
ton. Seed is sown in February, the exact time de¬ 
pending on the rain. It is thrown broadcast over 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 137 

the earth. In about a week the seed comes up, 
resembling a sprouting grain. In June the plant blos¬ 
soms; the flower of both varieties is yellow and very 
fragrant, so that the prospect is a most delightful 
one. About the last of September, the seeds ripen, 
the plant needing practically no care when once 
sown. 

The mustard plant is then reaped with a reaping 
machine and collected in bunches of a pitchforkful 
each. These are gathered in great wagons, where 
they resemble hay, and are hauled to a great sheet 
of ducking, where the seed is threshed out into sacks 
of about ninety pounds. A hundred pounds or so 
are threshed at a time, eight men operating the outfit 
for hauling and dumping on the sheet. Once on the 
sheet, horses do the threshing, being driven about 
over the plants with a roller five or six feet in diameter. 
When the straw has been removed from the sheet 
the seed is taken to the fan-mill to clean and then 
is put in sacks and shipped. Not less than seventy- 
five thousand sacks of mustard go out of Lompoc a 
year, it being about the only place in the country 
where the grain is raised in any quantity. 

After we have visited the bean fields we ride 
out into the Lompoc Valley. Beans we find here 
to be almost as important as mustard, being har¬ 
vested by a machine like a plow-share or a long knife 
of steel fastened into a wooden frame shaped like a 
sled, which cuts three rows at once as a lawn mower 
would. The cut plants are then bunched together 
and hauled to the threshing place to be threshed out 
and put in sacks. 


138 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


Potatoes and apples, dairy products, stock, and 
honey, all come from this valley. Oil derricks indi¬ 
cate another industry, and the almond orchards are 
large. Then, on the outskirts, we pay a visit to 
the old mission, now a ruin, but interesting never¬ 
theless, reminding us of our rambles among the ancient 
castles of the Rhine-land. There is a mission at Santa 



RUINS OF MISSION AT LOMPOC 


Ynez (En-yez 7 ), just twenty-five miles from here, where, 
we learn, services are still held. Strangers are rare 
at these missions, however, for there is nothing else 
of interest to bring people to the towns. The mission 
near Lompoc, which was destroyed by the earthquakes 
of 1812, was founded in 1787, and is known as Pu- 
risima (Poo-riss'e-mah) Concepcion. 









OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 139 

We explore the interior of the ruin and notice , that 
the bricks are red outside, and of a bluish-black in¬ 
side. As nails were not to be had at the time that 
the mission was built the beams were bound in place 
with rawhide thongs, some of which still dangle 
down. Owls and squirrels flit and scurry among the 
ruins as though to impress us with their age. 

At supper at the hotel a dish of English walnuts, 
raisins and almonds is on the table, as is usual 
in hotels in this part of the west. 

CURIOUS ROCKS 

On the morrow, we can visit the great beds of dia- 
tonaceous earth near here. It is used, mixed with 
asbestos or chalk, to form a non-conductor of heat, 
and is converted into panels, doors and other fire¬ 
proof necessities and ornaments. The stuff is very 
light and is quarried with pick and shovel by miners, 
who pile it up and let it dry for a few weeks, to get 
out the natural moisture, when it becomes lighter 
still, and is shipped to be made into magno-silica and 
other forms. It is also used in the partitions of walls 
to deaden sound. 

Of course we want to see the famous silo (sigh-lo), 
a round tower near here recalling that of Pisa. It 
is forty feet high by sixteen in diameter. The outside 
of this cylinder is a wooden framework, the inside of 
flooring. The interior is sealed about with tarred 
paper, and on the top a bed of straw perhaps twenty 
inches deep is put, which molds to form an air-tight top. 
Whole stalks cf corn, cut at the season when they are 
full of sugar, are crushed up and placed on the top 


140 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


of the tower, to be kept until all other green fodder 
is gone, when it is fed to the stock, which fairly revel 
in it. 

We saunter over to the great mustard barns, 
too, and see the seed packed, and after that, the 
sun proving too warm outside, we sit in our rooms in 
the quaint little hotel until train time, getting our 
journals in shape. 

Then we return to Surf to continue up the main 
track of travel. We enjoy riding down right by the 
side of the sea, or, when we skirt inland, among the 
great sand-waves which the railway had to fight 
when building this section of track. These waves of 
pure beautiful sand have drifted up where the green 
meadows slope down, making inroads that look like 
the runs of water one sees in New Jersey. At Oceano 
(O-shan'oh) we pass a winter resort, but continue 
on to San Luis Obispo (Lu'iss O-biss'po). 

SAN LUIS OBISPO 

We have come to San Luis Obispo because we have 
been told that here is the largest prune orchard in 
the world. The town we find to be very scattered, 
the houses principally of frame, each with a sloping 
roof of red or blue, edged in white, not unlike a Chinese 
pagoda. Here, as elsewhere in this section, there is 
a sanatorium, and old people and consumptives are 
numerous because of the balmy climate. 

The city sights we soon exhaust. They consist 
only of the great white court-house and the mission, 
very well preserved. Then we engage a buggy for 
the land of prunes. Our route lies into the open 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


141 


country, among lemon groves, from which now and 
then monstrosities such as four lemons grown together 
and weighing fifty-two ounces, are obtained. We 
learn of the local products —of tugsten , a new mineral 
which is found near by and is used in tempering armor 
plate—and of the copper and silver mines. Distances 
are very deceptive in this clear air, and our drive is 
longer than we expected. Its monotony is varied 
by one of those accidents which are apt to take place 
on a protracted journey such as ours, namely, a run¬ 
away, which enlivens the trip and give us a little scare. 

By and by, however, we come to our destination, 
America’s greatest prune orchard, only to learn that 
latterly the owner has replaced these trees with 
English walnuts and the prune orchard is gone. This, 
however, is so typical an incident of the trials which 
come to the most careful traveler that we cannot 
omit recording it in our day books. We return by 
way of Edna (Ed'na), a little hamlet from which 
the school children are just driving home in their 
sulkies, and we listen to their talk as they ride at 
our sides. 

They are telling of one of the frequent barbecues 
held hereabouts. A hole about five feet by three 
is dug in the ground, and into this good oak timber 
is put; this is lit and a great fire started. When the 
flames have c'eased and only the red-hot wood coals 
remain at the bottom, large pieces of meat, well seas¬ 
oned, are strung upon rods of steel or willow over the 
pit. When these are roasted “to a turn,” the company 
gathers, men and women sitting alternately about 
the long “bench tables,” to enjoy the feast. 


142 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


There are quite a number of Swiss and Portuguese 
settlers in this vicinity, and we learn that they fre¬ 
quently celebrate their various national festivals. 

From this point we could continue on to some neigh¬ 
boring hot springs, but as we shall see these very 
shortly, at Paso Robles, we can leave that rather 
circuitous drive out of consideration. 

MUD BATHS OF PASO ROBLES 

We rise again rather early in the morning to take 
the train for the thirty-six mile ride to Paso Robles 
(Pass-o Ro-bells), or the “pass of the oaks,” so named 
for its venerable oak trees. The springs both here 
and at Santa Ysabel, two miles distant, where there 
is a flow of six hundred thousand gallons a day, are 
noted for their curative properties, being especially 
good when taken in connection with the mud baths, 
for rheumatism and skin afflictions. 

Our ride is through a pass of the Santa Lucia 
Mountains and then through the far-famed oak forests 
at the head of the Salinas River to Paso Robles. 
Owing to the grade, our speed is slow and we note 
the altitude at one place, Cuesta (Koo-ess'tah)—one 
thousand two hundred and eighty-nine feet. Hot as 
it was yesterday at Lompoc, so hot that we did not 
care to sit out of doors, here there is frost upon 
the grass and we can see our breath. On the car the 
newsboy sells bottles of oyster cocktails, a custom 
seldom met with in the east but very general in Cali¬ 
fornia. Paso Robles we find to be a village of 
frame houses thinly scattered among oaks and cy¬ 
presses. Great six-horse lumber teams go by, and 

■ 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


143 


there are also soda works. Close by is a civic bath¬ 
house, where people can take the baths, and there is 
a little cobblestone fountain, out of which the luke¬ 
warm water pours, free to the poorest that comes. 
The taste is that of sulphur and not very bad, if one 
cares for odd tastes. 

We peep in at the bath tubs, the plunge and the 
rest. All but two of these are of sugar pine, instead 
of porcelain, as it appears that china is affected at 
once and becomes a dirty gray. We put a half dollar 
in the water and at once it is turned black. 

The city, we learn, operates its baths in opposition 
to those of the great hotel which had practically in¬ 
augurated a monopoly of the waters, and as the latter 
naturally puts up more pretentious bath-houses, the 
warfare is a merry one. 

The new city bath-house of concrete is the next thing 
on the itinerary, and here we see the sulphur, sweat and 
mud baths. The last named are unique. The mud 
is often found naturally prepared, though quite as 
often it is artificially made ready by allowing the 
waters to percolate through it for some time, leaving 
the soil heavily charged with mineral. When the 
earth is thoroughly “rotted,” it is placed in tanks 
three feet and a half by four, and four feet deep, 
into which steps lead. Here the mud is kept at a tem¬ 
perature of 115° by means of steam, and one can 
immerse oneself as deep as one wishes. If, for example, 
the foot be affected with rheumatism, the patient will 
sink the leg, up to the knee perhaps,in mud, and there 
let it remain for about six or eight minutes. From 
the mud one passes to a hot shower bath, then into 


144 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


the sweat blankets and later into a plunge. After 
that one may take massage if desired. Special tubs 
are reserved for certain diseases and fresh mud is 
ever being added. The time required for a bath of 
this sort is from an hour to an hour and a half, 
and the price is fifty cents. To us the mud appears 
rather slushy, the top seems all water, and the bot¬ 
tom like thin mortar. 

Again we remember that in California the great 
hotels are really one of the sights of the state, and so 
we pass on down to this one. We find that out 
of the great lobby there opens a hall which leads 
to all points of interest. It runs through the hotel, 
to the cozy glass sun parlor, where there are large 
willow easy chairs and little tables, then into little 
enclosed arcades as on an ocean liner, and so to the office 
of the hotel baths. From there we step into a little 
reception room, then down an aisle between the dress¬ 
ing-rooms and finally into the baths themselves, 
where the fine long white porcelain tubs are filled 
with the pale blue water. 

From the hotel we step out into the park in the 
heart of the town. Here little shops cater to the 
farmers round about, rather than to the guests, as 
most of the latter are sick and have come supplied 
with what they need. 

A little horse car, the horses set in tandem, comes 
by, and we board this to ride to the end of its route. 
The trip is about two miles in length, out through 
meadows dotted with the famous oaks of Paso Robles 
which are bearded with moss, and over a country road, 
where the health-seekers walk up and down for daily 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


145 


exercise. At the end of the line is another bath¬ 
house simple in form, and here, too, is a warm spring 
which has a rather pleasing sulphurous taste. The 
water is much hotter than at Paso Robles itself, being 
at its coolest 109°, and the other springs averaging 
112°, 116° and even 122°. Patients usually go down 
into a concrete vat, built right over the 108-degree 
spring, and stay there for four minutes. Then they 
pass into a pool at 112° for three or four minutes to 
wash off the mud, and after that go into blankets, where 
they sweat probably half an hour. The square steam¬ 
ing mud pit recalls to us the hot baths of New Zealand, 
of our Australian Little Journey , and also the pictures 
of the tortures of Hades we found on the church 
portico at Dupnitza. 

We shall dine at Paso Robles and then continue 
onward, up the coast, as it were, for the ocean is but 
twenty miles distant. 

The country traversed is rather interesting. We 
go through Kings City, west of which lie the ruins of 
Mission San Antonio de Padua (Pad'oo-ah), founded 
in 1771. At Soledad (Sol-e-dad) is another mission, 
that of Nuestra (Noo-ess'trah), Senora de la Soledad, 
which dates from 1791. Crossing the Salinas (Sah- 
li'nass) River and after passing through the town 
of that name (which is famous for its beet sugar 
factories), we might stop off for a nine-mile drive to 
the famous Vancouver (Van-koo'vur) Pinnacles, where 
are subterranean lakes, trap-rock statuary, and other 
objects of interest to sight-seers. We, however, are 
bound for what we believe to be an even more interest¬ 
ing place, Castroville (Kass'tro), where we again 


146 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


leave the main road of travel for Monterey (Mon-te-ray). 
We are getting on; we shall be only a hundred and 
twenty-six miles from San Francisco when we reach 
Monterey. 

THE MOST FAMOUS LITTLE TOWN IN THE WEST 

Just as Concord is the most famous little town in 
the East, so in the West Monterey has that dis¬ 
tinction. Within six miles of it are more points of 
interest than are afforded by any other place in the 
western wonderland. 

Nor is it without history. Cabrillo, we remember, 
coasted along here in 1542, naming the place the 
Cabo de Pinos (Cah'bow Pe'noss). Then in 1693, 
Sebastian Vizcaino discovered the Carmel (Kar-mell) 



CUSTOM-HOUSE PORTICO AT MONTEREY 








OUN WESTERN WONDERLAND 


147 


River, and on the 16th of December landed at Mon¬ 
terey. Here, in 1770, Junipero Serra, whose name 
has become so familiar to us, founded the mission San 
Carlos Borromeo (Bor-ro-may'o), later transferring 



ALTAR IN MONTEREY CHINATOWN 


it five miles east to the banks of the Carmel River, 
where we will visit it. 

Closely associated with Monterey is Del Monte 
(Dell Mon'tay). In fact we have probably thought 
that the famous Del Monte is a hotel in Monterey. 
As a matter of fact, it is not, being at another station 
entirely, and if we are wise we will take rooms in the 
splendid little hotel at Monterey, and then view the 
Del Monte as visitors only. 




148 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


But we are anticipating, for we are still on the 
train, and having seen that last mission, have wan¬ 
dered into the dining-car with twilight, to indulge in 
California artichokes and other western viands. In the 
night and rain, we dismount at Castroville and there 
take another train for Monterey. At the station of Del 
Monte many people get out, but we are uninfluenced 
by this and continue right on to the city. There, as 
everywhere, we find the hotel rates include meals, 
whether they be eaten in the hotel or not. 

THE OLD WHALING DAYS AND THE NEW 

Those of us who have visited Nantucket may recall 
having heard the old whalers there speak of Monterey 
whaling, for in its time this place was famous for its 
whaling expeditions. So, being in Monterey, we shall 
look up the old whalers. 

For breakfast first, however, we again indulge 
in local products—mackerel and barracuda (bahr-ra- 
koo'da), preserved figs and sliced oranges. Then we 
take a stroll in the main street of the town—a 
very small town it is—and look in at the shops. We 
note the tamale everywhere; in fact it and the curio 
shops would seem to monopolize commerce. Pretty 
slabs of red-wood, showing the hairy bark, queer 
ornaments of carved whale-bone, little shell orna¬ 
ments, etc., are the chief displays. At the upper 
end of town the old custom-house, its second floor 
enclosed with a projecting veranda, while the first 
floor has no porch, is interesting. It was built long 
ago, and is particularly famous from the fact that 
it was over this building that Commodore Sloat 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 149 

hoisted the American flag in 1846, to signalize the 
passing of California from Mexican rule. 

Seated on the benches of cobble-stone under the 
veranda of the old custom-house we meet a former 
whaler, a Portuguese, who came here years ago to 
engage in whaling. Unlike the grounds of the Nan¬ 
tucket whalers, the whaling grounds for these men 
began right off this coast; occasionally a whale would 
be harpooned right in the bay itself. Seldom, however, 
did the mariners await such luck as that, but instead, 
if the weather was good, one boat would go out two 
miles, and another perhaps a mile and a half and take 
position, so that the first boat was within sight of the 
other and yet was not in its path. Then they drifted 
along and if a whale was seen, he would be driven 
toward the whaling grounds of the particular com¬ 
pany to which the ships belonged, and there taken. 
Thirty-foot boats, holding six men apiece, would be 
employed for the work, and these would carry a swivel 
gun to shoot the harpoon, with from twenty to thirty 
fathoms of rope attached, into the whale. When the 
whalers met a cow, calf and bull whale the work was 
somewhat simple. If the parent was harpooned, the 
others would flee. But if the calf was first harpooned, 
the parents would remain trying to protect it and 
the whalers would secure all three. 

As we had a good account of whaling given us 
on our Nantucket trip, we do not think it necessary 
now to jot down all the explanations received from 
the old salt. We record only the fact that it is 
fourteen years since there has been whaling at Mon¬ 
terey. 


150 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


We shall learn of other fishing here, for the 
pomano, for example, which is taken in the barra- 
cua nets. There is no bait employed for this, the 
fishermen going out by night, two in the net boats, and 
when they feel that the net is heavy with the fish, they 
take it up, sometimes three or four times in a night. 

The Chinese hereabouts do a great deal of fishing 
for the so-called rock-fish and smelt, which latter 
are caught in a net and then drawn up. The Japanese, 
too, are indomitable fishermen, frequently going out 
to harpoon the sharks that are encountered in these 
waters. Occasionally a boat will capsize and throw 
the men into neighboring nets, a rather dangerous acci¬ 
dent, but the Jap does not seem to mind in the least. 



A BIT OF MONTEREY CHINATOWN 







OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 151 

Here at Monterey we are shown an interesting 
relic, the anchor of the famous Natalia , the ship on 
which Napoleon escaped from Elba, which sank in 
this bay. The anchor was uncovered but recently 
and will probably be placed in a local park, if not 
returned to France. 

Across the bay, as we walk along, we see a little 
jetty out from a grassy cape, and on this lawn the 
famous Junipero Monument, with the priest standing 
within a grating, that we have so often seen in pictures. 
The foundation for the monument to the man who 
raised the first flag here also is close by. 

Returning to the heart of town, we now board a 
street car for Del Monte and for what is claimed to 
be the finest hotel in the world. 

DEL MONTE 

The cars taking us to the hotel have both ends open, 
the center enclosed against rainy weather. On the 
way we note the number of Japanese establishments 
and their pretty names (“Sun Rise and Co.,” for 
example); then an old inn with the yellow, sloping 
roof and white verandas on the upper floor overhang¬ 
ing the walk. Barbers here not only have their pole 
at the curb, but also two bars of red and white stripes 
on each side of the door. We pass through New 
Monterey, a more modern place, and dismount finally 
at Del Monte. 

Across the road stretches a high, white-paling fence, 
lined with a still higher box hedge that recalls the 
tale of Sleeping Beauty. Behind this rise tall pin- 
oaks, the vanguard to the hundred and twenty-six 


152 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 



acre preserve. Through the moss we see the stables 
of the hotel. We pass through an arch in the hedge, 
cross the road skirting it within and then proceed 
through another hedge and up the lane. On our 


DEL MONTE 

right are conservatories and beds of violets and daisies, 
fox-glove and salvias. On the left other green-houses 
are built of wood scantlings instead of glass, and these 
too contain rare plants. There is the red clianthus, 
for instance, which has a flower like a lobster’s claw, 
and other unusual varieties. 

A neat little store here sells cut flowers, cyclamen, 
primulas and violets, and as we stop we note a sign 
announcing the hotel’s weekly fire drill, for a regular 
fire company is maintained. Then we continue on 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


153 


over the famous park, where orchids and geraniums 
and square-shaped flower beds continue to reveal 
their beauties. We come to another road which 
winds through a forest of bearded, gnarled oaks and 
tall, equally bearded pines, beneath which the grass 
and the buttercups sprout. This we cross, catching 
a glimpse as we do so of many curious rectilinear 
flower beds in the forest, and observe that the pines 
that shelter them have their trunks covered with ivy. 

At last, however, passing the palm beds, we come 
to the hotel, a three-story frame structure, red-roofed, 
yellow-painted, with a veranda, glass-enclosed in places, 
along the lower floor, and with an annex on one side 
built in a style which recalls that of Swedish buildings. 

We do not remain long in the hotel, but as we are 
looking around we notice one very strange thing about 
its arrangement: Directly facing the door, across 
the lobby, seven broad carpeted steps lead to a narrow 
landing on which are some palms. Ahead there is a 
wall of mirrors. Why the stairs? we wonder,—but 
only until meal time, when the mirrors part and re¬ 
veal the dining-room behind. Another oddity is a 
corridor which, like the one at Paso Robles, leads 
off from the lobby through the entire hotel. We 
take this corridor, and by and by we find it comes to 
a parting of the ways, a partition down its length 
making two halls instead of one. One of these slopes up 
to another floor, the other down to the basement. 

THE WHALE-BONE WORKER 

On our way back to Monterey we drop in to visit 
a curious little industry, the working up of the bone 


154 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


of the whale (not the whale-bone of commerce) into 
fanciful shapes, such as pictures of the mission, etc. 
The bone for these was obtained from the old side¬ 
walks of Monterey when these were condemned. 
Owing to the accumulation of this material when they 
were laid, they were composed of the bone of the 
whale, which now is simply sawed into shape and then 
given an artistic, finish. 

PACIFIC GROVE 

In the afternoon we go by car to Pacific Grove, one 
of the most delightful little spots on the coast. On 
our way we pass a Chinese fishing village, to be visited 
later on, the little frame huts huddling on the rocks 
much as they do at Canton. The village is quite 
different from any other Chinatown in the land. 
At the Grove itself the neat frame houses all stand in 
a dense cypress grove; some of them have roses climb¬ 
ing up to their eaves and all have flower beds about 
them. In fact the Grove is just a sort of park by the 
sea with the addition of the California flowers and 
climate to make it charming. At the end of the line 
we wander out to a rocky cove where the wild, 
beautiful surf beats high on the great rocks with such 
force and continuous motion as to recall the whirlpool 
at Niagara. There is a little Japanese tea garden 
here, into which we step and enjoy the breakers 
and the beauty of the site over a steaming cup of 
Hyson. 

We then stroll back along the coast to the 
Chinese fishing village. We find it a most interesting 
place, which we shall not soon forget. The huts 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


155 



are of wood, black and weatherbeaten. The people are 
all fishermen, and being away from the beaten tourist 
paths and not much troubled with sight-seers, they 
are quite friendly. They let us wander as we will 


CHINESE FISHING VILLAGE NEAR PACIFIC GROVE 

and on closer inspection we find the houses to con¬ 
sist of one or two rooms; the only windows are at the 
top of the roof; a single narrow door is left open to 
the sea. Inside some of the houses there is cheap 
wallpaper and in the gloom we detect a low cot covered 
with blankets unfolded against the wall, a few 
chairs, and general disorder. The men of the village 
go about here in loose black satin trousers and light 
blue satin coats over a ministerial-looking vest, the 
hair done in a cue which is frequently wound about 




156 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


the head. They are very careful of their cues, for 
without them they can never return to China. The 
women hobble about with nothing on their feet but 
clogs. They have not the abnormally small feet we 
read of as characteristic of Chinese women. It seems 
that only the upper classes are thus deformed. They 
wear circles of gold in their ears, from which hang 
pretty green stones. 

Several of the houses have on the outside of the 
door a little shelf where joss-sticks are burned in tin 
cans. Across the beach, on the rocks, the Cantonese 
skiffs are drawn up. They are square at each end, 
while from the middle rises a low mast, across which 
an iron bar is fastened at right angles; from the ends 
of this hang iron nets. In these pieces of wood are 
burnt at night in order to attract the fish. The 
fishermen usually go out at two in the morning and 
return about two in the afternoon. 

PROFESSOR LOEB’s LABORATORY 

A bit farther down the beach we see two neat 
frame houses on a well kept lawn, seemingly hidden 
from the world. This is the laboratory and summer 
home of the famous Prof. Loeb, who is working out 
the mysteries of the origin of life. Often on a fine 
day Mr. Loeb, a genial, middle-aged gentleman, may 
be seen walking up and down for a bit of exercise, 
while his assistants bring fresh sea-urchins from the 
rocks. 

If it chances to rain we will hurry back to China¬ 
town, for the downpour will give us an excuse to take 
refuge in one of the fishermen’s huts and so see how 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 157 

they look inside. The tiny, foot-square windows- 
up in the peaked roof and the floor of dirty bare 
boards recall the houses we visited on our Little 
Journey to Iceland , although there we did not see, 
as here, an opium outfit burning on the unmade cot. 
There are twelve children in this family, and as the 
girls wear trousers it is hard in the dark to tell 
girls and boys apart. Some of the boys wear Ameri¬ 
can attire, but the little babies are in the gay Chinese 
costume,—green suits, little round caps and white 
lace dresses over all. Against one wall, on a projection 
like a mantel, is the joss. Red papers with black 
lettering, forming three sides of a square, are on the 
wall, and in front of this are pewter utensils like candle¬ 
sticks into which the joss-sticks are placed. Then 
there are two pewter bowls for sacrifices and a dish of 
blooming narcissus and the food from which the 
spirits of the ancestors are believed to take their 
sustenance. 

“Here are my papa and mama,” our host explains, 
while his little son lights some joss-sticks and sets 
them burning in the cups. 

By and by, they bring out a great wicker basket 
and from it take a blue china tea-pot, pouring from 
this into handleless cups weak Chinese tea, which 
they take without sugar. 

Again returning to Monterey, we chat with some 
of her citizens about her past. The first theater 
in California, we learn, was here, and in this Jenny 
Lind sang. Here, too, General Sherman wooed a girl, 
secured her promise to marry him and then never 
came back to claim her. Here some of the scenes 


158 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


described in “Two Years Before the Mast” took 
place, and at Monterey Robert Louis Stevenson served 
as reporter on the newspaper for a pitiful two dollars 
a week. 


THE SEVENTEEN-MILE DRIVE 

The famous seventeen-mile drive in this vicinity is 
another of the many attractions which justify the 
claim of Monterey to the distinction of possessing 
more points of interest within its six-mile radius than 
any other place of like size. We have reserved the 
next day for this, and start early. Our route lies 
again toward Chinatown, and as we wish to take 
some photographs we diverge to pay it another 
visit. We pass through a portion not seen before; 
and so reach the cemetery, where each lot is surrounded 
by a board fence originally square; inside this are the 
graves. A new grave is made conspicuous here by a 
tall pole topped with a gilded piece of board to which 
is attached a bit of spruce. From this board a pink 
flag covered with black characters is draped. Near 
this is a shorter pole on which is a broader pink flag 
and a brown ribbon trailing to a third low staff which 
bears a pink Chinese umbrella trimmed with green. 
An old soap-box filled with edibles stands beside 
the grave. 

After having been buried several years, the remains 
of the Chinese are shipped back to China, so that the 
cemetery is far from full. Continuing our ride, we 
come by and by to the forest lodge that admits to the 
famous drive. As this is a private institution we pay 
a quarter apiece for the privilege of driving along the 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


159 


road, and then skim down the avenue which leads 
into the pretty pine woods and through the open 
meadows. A catelo (kat-e-lo), a cross-breed of 
bison and milch cow, roams here, taking to his heels 



CHINESE GRAVE IN MONTEREY CHINATOWN 


at the sight of us. On the rocks by the sea we find 
here still another, smaller, Chinese village, and then 
ahead the famous Ostrich Tree comes in sight. Out 
at the tip of a cape, it looks like an ostrich just about 
to peck his way into the sea. As a matter of fact, 
the Ostrich Tree really consists of two trees, both 
cypresses, that have grown into each other and have 
assumed this curious shape. 

Again and again we dismount along the shore to 









160 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


gather the magnificent large abalone shells to be 
found here in any quantity. We diverge from the 
main path to pass through the cypress forest, strangely 
wild and weird and reminding us of the Mount 
of Olives, to reach the Ostrich itself, that we may 
take a near snap-shot of it. The cypresses here, it is 
claimed, are unique, the wind having so blown their 



CYPRESS TREES 


branches as to form regular shelves or layers smooth 
as a hedge all up the trees. The sea runs in, forming 
quiet little bays, and there are more Chinese fishing- 
huts, mere “wicki-ups,” that fit well into the scene 
and recall the South Sea Islands so forcibly that we 
should not be surprised to see some pirate ship come 
sailing in. It is a very lovely scene, and we feel as 





OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


161 



though we should be perfectly content to ride on 
through these seaside forests forever. 

By and by, however, we emerge from the drive and 
continue on our way to Carmel. 

CARMEL-BY-THE-SEA 

This town is rather new, and the way to it is down¬ 
hill through the woods, where the scene is one of pris¬ 
tine wildness. In the pine forests, however, homes are 
being built, principally of shingles and having a rustic 
air that recalls the small towns of Wisconsin. On 
the main street there are perhaps six stores in all*, 
and a hotel set among the trees on the seaside. We 


CARMEL MISSION 




162 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


drive by and on to the open forest-enclosed valley 
in the mountains, to the old mission of Carmel. Be¬ 
yond it are the ruins of the first mission, long since 
passed away. This more recent one has a little yellow 
dome and cross on one side, while to right and left 
of the center the bells hang in small towers. From 
here we return on the circuit of the drive to Mon¬ 
terey. 

While there is still time between trains at Monterey, 
it does not hang heavy. We visit the marine labora¬ 
tory of California University once more, and then enjoy 
idling on the rocks above the bay, watching an oil 
steamer from Honolulu come gently in, while the sun¬ 
set falls on the picture. 

Then with night we return by train to Castroville, 
to continue on ten miles to Pajaro (Pah-hah-ro), 
where another branch of the railroad takes us to 
Santa Cruz. 


SANTA CRUZ 

We are now nearing the end of February and the 
rainy season is on, and we are given a day of rest in 
Santa Cruz by the rains. When one cannot take pic¬ 
tures of what he sees, to perpetuate it, it is useless 
to proceed on so long a journey as ours, for even the 
best memory, as years go by, will fail to recall many 
scenes. So we simply sit about the fire in a home-like 
hotel and read of this region,—of the good salmon 
fishing close by and of old Mission Santa Cruz, founded 
by Father Salaza Lopez in 1791. We chat with 
an old couple who are here to escape the rose-fever 
(much like the hay-fever of the East), an orange seller, 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 163 

and the owner of a cafeteria in Los Angeles, where 
each takes his own tray from a counter, helps himself 
to what he wants, and before sitting down to eat, 
has it checked up and pays for it. When the rain 
holds op a bit, we walk through the great covered 
bridge to the heart of town, where rain and the darkness 
have compelled the neat little stores to light up as is 
done during Christmas week in the East. 

The [day of rest does us good, and we rise next 
morning all the better for it and eager to be off. It 
is still raining, but we resolve to “do” Santa Cruz at 
least. The gardens with their endless array of flowers 
make us forget the rain. By and by we board a car 
for Capitola (Kap-e'to-la), going out Pacific Avenue, 
the main street, and passing the Catholic Church, in 
the mission style, which marks the site of old Santa 
Cruz mission. Redwood lumber yards arrest our at¬ 
tention by the almost scarlet color of the lumber 
now that it is wet. At the end of the line we take 
in the Marine Casino, one of the features of summer 
life at Santa Cruz, which is a great resort for Califor¬ 
nians. Now the place is well-nigh deserted and ducks 
are swimming in the surf where in the summer thou¬ 
sands bathe daily. All the attractions of a Coney 
Island in miniature are here in the season, but now 
the little sheds are closed and their attendants gone. 
In the summer, too, there is a great tent city here, 
but of that there is now no vestige. Having ex¬ 
hausted this section, we return to town and take the 
cars to another point. This brings us to a queer old 
place known locally as the “Zoo,” but in reality the 
winter home of a small circus. On the porches the 


164 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


poles and tents are stored, while inside the structure 
are the cages, row on row, with no attempt to make 
a show place. 

Over the way is the Cliff Museum, from which one 
may look out to the greyish-yellow sea breaking on the 
cliffs, but this, too, is closed at this time of year and 
only a desolate monkey remains outside on the porch. 

THE BIG TREES 

It is still raining, but we cannot delay any longer, 
and in the afternoon take the train for the Big Trees. 
The trip is a pretty one, out through dense tangles of 
pines, oaks, blue gums, and tall redwoods, through 
which one sees the opposite mountains with the vin- 
yards, the vines cut down so low as to make them 
look like little dots on a quilt. Lumber camps are 
to be seen in the valley and six-horse teams dragging 
the trunks go slowly by. The ride, however, is only 
six miles long and we are soon at the Trees. Had 
the weather been fair we should probably have driven 
one way and returned by train, in order to see both 
routes. 

The station itself is of redwood shingles, a pictur¬ 
esque little place, with the stupendous forest of giant 
trees all about. Not that the trees are so great in 
their circumference; it is the height which fairly 
stupefies us. We can see their summits only by 
bending way back. We are surrounded by a perfect 
wilderness, all about rise the forest-clad Santa Cruz 
Mountains, wild and beautiful, behind us is the grove 
of the Trees,—that is all. We pass through the gate¬ 
way in the tall board fence enclosing them and a guide 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 165 

in rubber boots, coat and cap meets us. He tells how 
the place was originally a Spanish grant dating back 
to 1846, and consisted of three hundred and fifty-six 
acres. When Fremont came it was the property of 
a white man named Graham, who lived out here among 
the Indians and who is supposed to have been a de¬ 
serter from the crew of some vessel. 

We pass the lodge of the guides and then to the 
trees themselves. First we are shown the “General 
Fremont,” the tree beneath which Fremont camped 
for part of the winter during the Mexican war, making 
his home in a room 16x28x18 feet inside,—a chamber 
into which not less than fifty people can crowd. 
Later a shoemaker had his shop in this room, and 
within it an American is now buried. The tree stands 
just two hundred and eighty feet high. 

None of the trees inside the fence now are allowed 
to* be cut, though outside lumbering of the great 
redwoods continues. This we learn as we pass on 
to the “ Jumbo” tree, on which there is a knot like 
an elephant’s head. Close beside are the “Three 
Sisters,” three trees connected by the root, where 
they were partly burnt by the Indians prior to 1848. 
One of the trees leans forty-two feet, otherwise they 
are in line. We pass a tree with a knot in the form 
of a buffalo head, and then over the very wet ground, 
covered with the decaying brown needles of the trees 
and their tiny cones, to the “Giant Tree, ”the greatest 
tree in the world. This tree had seventy-five feet 
broken from its top at some previous time, though 
within the memory of man and recorded history none 
of the trees have been struck by lightning, but it still 


166 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


stands three hundred and six feet high and is twenty- 
two feet in circumference. It would make in lumber 
some two million feet which would sell at from eigh¬ 
teen to twenty dollars a thousand feet. In awe we 
look up through the wet limbs, the highest far up 
indeed, to the top, arching like a cathedral spire. 
Before Adam was, perhaps, this giant lived. On the 
ground beneath us some of his seeds have taken root 
and are sprouting and when we are long forgotten 
they perhaps will be mere toddlers in the forest. 

Here, too, is the “General Grant,” with a trunk 
twenty-two feet through. The trunks of the trees are 
covered with a yellow-green algae and moss. Some 
of these trees, it is estimated, are three and five 
thousand years old, some are even older. 

To name all the big fellows would be tedious. There 
is the “Roosevelt,” which it takes nine people, 
touching finger tips, to encircle (the General Grant 
requires fourteen); then the “ McKinley,” the “Sher¬ 
man” and the “Ingersoll.” Strangely enough, the 
roots of these trees are quite near the surface of 
the ground; there is practically no tap root at all. 
Very few birds inhabit the branches, and these 
chiefly blue-jays, although squirrels are numerous. 

Down beneath the redwoods, the baytrees and the 
madrone, which latter sheds its bark annually like 
a sycamore, and sometimes twice a year at the top 
and once at the base, thrive lustily. We learn that 
from the tops of these shrubs to the first limb of the 
big fellows the distance is generally about one-third 
the height of the entire tree and that the diameter 
of a tree is one-third of the circumference. No per- 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


167 


ceptible difference in the height of the trees is no¬ 
ticeable in a life-time. It takes about sixty rings at 
one ring a year to make an inch increase in height, 
but as these rings are counted on both sides it takes 
thirty years to increase the diameter of the tree an 
inch. Some trees will have perhaps twenty-five rings 
to the inch, others upward of sixty. 

There is one place here in the San Lorenzo 
(Lo-ren'zo) Canon where a tree was upturned and 
the hollow has partly filled with needles and cones. 
There it was, the guides tell the rustic, that Noah 
got the lumber for his ark. Maybe it was. Who 
knows? 

In cutting the redwoods outside the grove, a saw 
ten to fourteen feet in length worked by two men 
(one at each end) is employed. It will take the pair 
about a day to cut a good-sized tree. First the tree 
is cut perhaps a third of the way across, a wedge- 
shaped incision. Then the men attack the tree on 
the other side and by means of wedging make it fall 
in the direction they wish. This is in order to avoid 
breaking the others in its descent. A crew of men 
then peel off the bark to use for souvenirs. This is 
spongy to the touch, but not easily severed from the 
tree. Then the log is cut into links of from twelve 
to forty or fifty feet in length for the mill. 

We have plenty of time to spare at the grove before 
the train leaves and so see it thoroughly. Then, 
finally, we return to Santa Cruz for our possessions 
and again by railway to Pajaro. We have a forty- 
nine-mile ride ahead of us to San Jose (Ho-zay'), the 
Garden City. 


168 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


SAN JOSE, THE GARDEN CITY 

San Jose, we read in the railway booklets as we spin 
along, is famed for its prunes, apricots, peaches, 
plums, apples, grapes, and nuts, its seed and its vege¬ 
tables. It is the greatest beet cultivating center and 
tool manufacturing place in the West, and the second 



SAN JOSE, A TYPICAL SMALL CITY OF CALIFORNIA 


city of fruitland in its general agricultural output. 
Here are the great canneries and the green-fruit 
packeries, and here from May to November unripe 
or ripe fruits and after that dried fruits, are prepared. 
This is the famous Santa Clara fruit section, named 
for the mission of Santa Clara founded in this valley 
in 1777, and to which at one time over fourteen hun- 




OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 169 

dred Indians came to worship. There are very nearly 
nine thousand Indian names on its books. 

It is almost one in the morning when we get to San 
Jose and so hurry to the hotel and to bed. The next 
morning we readily understand why San Jose is called 
the Garden City. We are charmed with it at once. 
Trees are set out along all the avenues with ivy climb¬ 
ing up their trunks. Flowers, too, and plants and 
palms everywhere meet the eye. 

When we get among the stores we find that very 
nearly every one of these has a bicycle rack in front, 
for so level is the valley that bicycling is the popu¬ 
lar mode of locomotion here. We walk along to 
the school-house, which stands in a fine garden, then 
through the park before the City Hall and the State 
Normal School, to take a peep at the first skyscraper 
of San Jose, which is now rapidly going up. On the 
sidewalks men peddle violets at a dime a bunch 
and in the grocery windows all manner of nuts 
are for sale. 

Over the city there rises a very tall electric light 
tower, the four piers of which are joined by a series 
of twelve concentric steel rings. The globes are at 
the top. Looking up toward them, we are reminded 
of the Eiffel Tower of Paris. The tower stands 
at the intersection of the two most important streets 
of the city and from it we overlook the principal parts 
of San Jose. It is such a clean, modern city that 
there are few actual sights as such, excepting the great 
Notre Dame Convent, past which we walk. On 
the telegraph poles, too, we note “city directories,” 
tin boxes with a glass pane in the cover and a handle 


170 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


at the side, on the turning of which latter the names of 
leading firms appear under the glass. 

We walk over the city, peeping at its fruit stores and 
canneries, and then engage a buggy to visit the largest 
seed farm in the world. 

THE LARGEST SEED FARM IN THE WORLD 

This is out near the town of Coyote (Ki-o-te), and 
embraces some three hundred and ninety acres. As 
we ride out of the town we note the many foreign 
names of shopkeepers. Here is a French laundry, 
run by the Braiquets (Bri-ketts), and there are shops 
kept by the Bercovichs (Bur-ko-vicks) and the Viseglias 
(Viz-zee-glee-ahs) and goodness knows who not. Then 



SEED FARMS, SAN JOSE 








OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


171 


there are Chinese laundries and there is a St. Patrick^ 
Church, built in imitation of the one in New York. 
And everywhere there are flowers. 

When we strike the open country we ride through 
great bare orchards and pasture land, with here and 
there a peach grove just beginning to bloom, and the 
bees are singing in one great oratorio. 

Finally, we come to the seed farm,—endlessly long 
rows of green seedlings of vegetables stretching to 
distant tree^ and still more distant clumps of build¬ 
ings. Acres of vegetables, in various stages of growth, 
are seen on all sides and in these both Chinese and 
Japs are at work, using the same implements they do 
in far Japan. 

We, however, are most interested in the magnitude 
of everything. There are two hundred acres in let¬ 
tuce alone and it takes the men about two and a half 
months to seed them. Six men and a horse are re¬ 
quired to do the planting, and that with the most 
modern tools. One acre of land will give from six 
to eight hundred pounds of seed. The plants begin 
to bloom in July and the seeds ripen in September. 
The plants are then cut with a sickle and placed in 
sacks to keep the birds from them. They are after¬ 
ward flailed and screened and the seed then put into 
sacks for sale. 

So it goes with the other things. Imagine a great 
lettuce field in bloom; hundreds and hundreds of acres. 
Or the soft green rows of parsley and of oyster plant; 
of carrots, leek, radish and parsnip, or anything else 
you can think of in the way of vegetables. So large 
is the place that it requires men to do nothing but 


172 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


attend to the little things that we should almost think 
insignificant. For example, just think of two men 
being employed the year round simply to trap gophers 
and vermin that get at the plants. 

It gives us a new idea of the magnitude of the seed 
industry and causes us to stop and think whence 
really come the vegetables that grace our daily board. 

MT. HAMILTON AND LICK OBSERVATORY 

Of course every one who visits San Jose wants to 
pay a visit to Mt. Hamilton and the famous Lick 
Observatory. We have the choice of two excursions 
—that by night on the given evening when tourists 
are permitted to look through the telescope, or in the 
day time when other wonders of the place are shown. 
Unless we are well up in astronomy and can appreciate 
the differences between what this glass shows and 
what we have seen through other famous telescopes, 
we shall do best to make the trip by day. 

We leave at six by wagonette, with a great burly 
western driver—who is himself a character—on the 
box, and some chatty eastern ladies for company. 
This is the stage line on which only as recently as 1906 
there were hold-ups, so conversation naturally drifts 
to that subject and we learn much of the ways of 
the gentlemen of the road. Only a year and a half 
ago a man came out from behind a tree with his gun, 
and ordered the driver to stop. The driver obeyed, 
for, as one never knows how many more men there 
may be in hiding, the rules of the company are 
to do so. The robber then demanded the money of 
the passengers as well as their watches. Then he 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


173 



LICK OBSERVATORY 

offered to sell back to its owner the watch of one lady 
—a ruse to find out if she had any money hidden 
about her. That done, he walked off with his booty, 
and to this day he has never been seen. 

On the wagonette we have the school teacher of 
Huyck (Hike) with us, and as we wind up into the hills 
overlooking the fertile valley and come in sight of the 
school, we find the country children drawn up 
at the roadside to salute her and wish her good-morn¬ 
ing. Many of these children are of Portuguese de¬ 
scent, the parents having come from Horta (Hor-ta). 
As we leave the mail at their parents’ homes, they 
throw poppies into the wagon to us,—a pretty cus¬ 
tom brought from the home country. 





174 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


The great smiling valley which we traverse 
reminds us greatly of the White Mountains in the 
vicinity of Fabyans. We stop at the Grand View 
House, eleven miles from San Jose, at an elevation of 
sixteen hundred and fifty feet, and then come in sight 
of the observatory on the top of the mountain. 
Toward this we keep ever winding. Meantime the driver 
tells of the observatory—how Lick left $700,000 to 
establish it, but as $610,000 was used in the buildings 
alone, it was turned over to the University of California 
for support. 

Then we reach the Halfway House and the view 
becomes much like that in Albania. We lunch here 
and peep into a queer little den entirely covered with 
the skins of wild animals. 

From this point on there is a turn in the road for every 
day in the year, and a mile for every day of the week. 
We continue through a canon of the bearded oaks 
and see the mistletoe hanging in balls. We climb 
steadily higher and higher, overlooking the Santa 
Clara Valley. Then, finally, we come out on the top, 
at the famous Lick Observatory, the buildings rising 
about like some feudal castle on the crest of the hill. 

Inside, the guides await us. They show us pic¬ 
tures and rare old autograph prints in the visitors’ 
room; then the great library, leading off from it. 
After that we climb the stairs into the great dome, 
painted a rich green-blue, to peep at the large refract¬ 
ing telescope with its thirty-six inch glass, the second 
largest in the world, being second only to the famous 
Yerkes glass. The object glass here is of two lenses, 
one of common and the other of flint glass, these set 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


175 


six inches apart. We look at these and at the eye¬ 
piece at the other end of the tube; at the 
oblong box-like instrument with which the stars are 
photographed; and then at the various apparati for 
clamping the telescope and adjusting it to the image. 

The telescope, we learn, is fifty-eight feet long and 
weighs three tons and a half. In spite of its great 
size and weight it can be moved with the gentlest 
touch of the hand. A clock-work arrangement 
causes it also to revolve with the motion of what¬ 
ever star the astronomer wishes to follow. 

Then the great dome of steel, weighing a hundred 
tons and moved so that any portion of the area may 
be opened, is explained, as is also the floor, which can 
be made to rise sixteen feet so as to be at a conven¬ 
ient height under the instrument in observing. The 
observation seat also slides up and down on a step¬ 
line, so that the operator may be comfortable when 
using the eye-piece. 

This eye-piece, we learn, can be made to magnify 
from three hundred to three thousand diameters, 
though two thousand four hundred power is what is 
usually used. The glass cost about thirty-five hundred 
dollars. The lens has a magnifying power of two thou¬ 
sand six hundred diameters. It is scarcely larger 
than a pin-head; the larger the lens, the less the 
power. 

Descending the stairs, we enter the open room be¬ 
neath the dome. A black pier runs down it, this 
pier resting on the tomb of Lick. Lick was a piano- 
maker, rather than an astronomer, and died in San 
Francisco in 1876. 


176 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


We are shown some interesting photographs of the 
moon and stars, and then allowed to adjust our watches 
to exact time. After that, we step out upon a balcony, 
and see the snow on the distant Sierra Nevadas, a 
hundred and seventy-five miles away. These and the 
Pyramid Peak of Lake Tahoe (Tay-ho) on the 
Nevada line are plainly visible. 

Then, we saunter about as we may, until time for 
the stage to return. 

THE OLD QUICKSILVER MINES 

To make the tour of California without visiting 
the great quicksilver mines in the vicinity of San Jose 
would be to miss one of its very interesting sights. 
So we reserve the morrow for a drive out to the greatest 
quicksilver mine on the continent and the second 
largest in the world. 

We pass the handsome Hall of Records of San Jose 
on this trip and are soon out again among the orchards. 
In harvest time great tables are set out in these, when 
the fruit is peeled by scores of men and women and 
laid on boards to dry in the sun, or else carted to the 
neighboring canneries. Later we get in among the 
ravines of the Almaden (Ahl-may-den) creek and the 
country takes on a wild, rather sad aspect. Then, 
by and by, we pass the Casa Grande or man¬ 
ager’s house, among the trees, and are at the mines. 
Great furnaces rise all about and wagons with the 
curious metal flasks for the ore pass and repass. Since 
long before 1850, when the present records begin, ore 
has been taken out, and in that time the mines have 
yielded something like nine hundred and thirty thou- 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


177 


sand flasks of seventy-six and a half pounds each. 
There are over eighty-one miles of underground 
passages in the mine, these nearly level, to every 
hundred feet. 

The process of securing the mercury or quicksilver 
is interesting. The miners, principally Mexicans, drill 
and blast, and then the dirt is hammered out into 
half-ton cars, which convey it to the surface. Thence 
it is taken to the head of the mountain and from 
there by gravity railway to a smelter where it is 
burnt. No alloy is used here, the mercury, or rather 
the cinnabar (sin-nah-bar), as the rock containing the 
quicksilver is termed, being literally roasted. The 
mercury then rises in fumes due to the heat, and these 
fumes pass into the condensers and there yield the 
mercury. , Good cinnabar will yield about thirty-six 
ounces of mercury to the ton. From these furnaces, 
the mercury is then poured into iron hand-made 
flasks, through which the metal will not eat its 
way, the flasks weighing about ninety-three pounds 
when full. 

Frequently in charging the furnaces with this ore, 
the miners here become what is known as “salivated,” 
that is, poisoned by the fumes. The poison causes 
them to shake all over, and frequently the head 
swells badly. 

What will especially interest us at this mine unlike 
any other we have seen, are the little troughs or gutters 
leading everywhere. From the furnaces in which the 
crushed ore is literally burnt, these gutters lead the 
quicksilver into the troughs and thence it trickles, 
little by little, from all parts of the works to a little 


178 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


locked room, reminding us of the torture chamber of 
a Turkish prison. There it gathers for weighing, 
bottling and sale. 

From the mine we step into the little mining 
town close by, for luncheon in the company dining¬ 
room. We meet here the town teacher, and we learn 
with surprise and pleasure that he uses the very 
Little Journeys one of which we are now making. 

PALO ALTO AND EARTHQUAKE LAND 

We are now at the parting of the ways. Our route is 
still northward from San Jose to Palo Alto. Up to 
the spring of 1906, Palo Alto would not have been 
omitted under any consideration, for no visitor to 
this part of California would willingly miss the oppor¬ 
tunity of seeing Leland Stanford, by many people 
considered the most beautiful university in the world. 
But today Stanford University is a mass of ruins, 
among which the laborers are at work rebuilding, 
and what there may be to see is rather uncertain. 
Let us pretend that for our visit everything is just as 
it was before the terrible earthquake wrought such 
havoc here, and in imagination make the jonrney of 
seventeen miles through the Santa Clara fruit country 
as we should have made it then. 

LELAND STANFORD UNIVERSITY 

At the depot there are innumerable vehicles of every 
sort to convey students and others to the grounds. 
We ride through the little college town of Palo Alto, 
and through the fields to the great entrance ahead. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


179 


It is an open gateway of yellow and white pillars set 
on each side the road, on which is inscribed the 
tale of how the estate was acquired by the Stanfords 
in 1876 and how the university was founded nine 
years afterward. The road then leads on, lined on 
the right and left by rows of great date palms and 



STANFORD UNIVERSITY 


beyond these is a broad cement path for pedestrians 
and bicyclers. Nearly all the students here have 
bicycles, so we grow quite accustomed to the whirr 
of passing wheels. 

Ahead the great buildings rise like a dream city, 
or some fantasy of Moorish construction,—first the 
huge gymnasium, with the glass.cupola over its center, 




180 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


then the museum and then other buildings. These are 
all large and they are all harmonious in style. Be¬ 
yond them are the homes of the different depart¬ 
ments of chemistry and so forth, and beyond these 
the new library. At the head of the avenue is a 
great central grass-plot on which stands an alle¬ 
gorical statue of Fame, behind which rises the 
famous Memorial Arch. From this an ivy-covered 
arcade leads to the main buildings. These are two 
stories high on each side, the center building having 
three stories. 

Ahead and beyond the arch, we now enter the me¬ 
morial court, a quadrangle of lawn divided by cement 
walks and surrounded by arcades of stone. To the 
rear, these arcades raise themselves into buildings 
and beyond those in turn there rises the spire of the 
Memorial Church. In the quad itself there is a palm, 
and a bronze figure of an eagle on a rock, another 
bronze group of four elephants supporting a howdah , 
also an excellent group of three members of the 
Stanford family. Behind all these appears the church, 
with its magnificent colored mosaic pictures. At the 
upper end of the arcade surrounding the court are 
hung notices of football, of articles lost by students 
and a time-table of the railway, announcements of 
debates, and the like. 

Crossing the quadrangle, we find ourselves in the 
great gravel court, with a broad cement walk leading 
down the center to the Memorial Church, made es¬ 
pecially handsome by three great arches in Moorish 
style. From this church, to right and left, extends 
still another covered arcade, of a one-story building, 



THE ARCH, STANFORD UNIVERSITY 

roof and spire are red, the clock showing that the hour 
is just 9:15. This red spire harmonizes with the mosaic 
on the front of the church, a picture of Christ among 
his people. Below it are the stained windows and 
then the legend : “Memorial Church. Erected 

to the glory of God and in loving memory of my hus¬ 
band, Leland Stanford.” While we stop to admire, 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 181 

and there is still another single-story structure at the 
corner of the court. These corner buildings, then, are 
connected with the arcade by lateral buildings, each 
with a tower at the center. 

The church chiefly claims our attention. It is of 
yellow stone, as are all the rest of the buildings. The 





182 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


we hear the chimes playing plaintively every quarter 
of an hour. The center of one side of the quad which 
is toward the church forms a gateway to it by three 
great Moorish arches, and above them Love and 
Faith and Hope and Charity are represented each in 

a colored mosaic 
on a background 
of yellow, and sep¬ 
arated by a gay 
floral pattern. 
Love has two 
children in her 
arms, Faith has a 
cross in the one 
hand and a cup 
aloft, and so on 
with the rest. We 
have not the time 
for a long look 
now, but in com¬ 
pany with some 
students, pass 
into the church. 
We note that com¬ 
paratively few of 
the Stanford stu¬ 
dents are what one would call well-dressed; most of 
them wear working clothes. 

We enter the church through three great open-work 
bronze doors, reminding us of the bronze doors we 
saw in Washington. We step into a vestibule of 
mosaic, where stairs rise up to disappear behind glass 


1 



A STUDENT AT STANFORD UNIVERSITY 






OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 183 

casings. Just opposite the door is a wall of marble 
with three sets of great oak double windows divided 
one from the other by the walls, in which there is a 
series of wreaths enclosing queer gilt patterns, with 
wavy circles of blue and of white inside; the whole 
effect is a most brilliant one. Over the entry, by 
which we proceed into the church itself, another of 
Mrs. Stanford’s inscriptions is seen: 

“ Whoever thou art that enterest this church, leave 
it not without a prayer to God for thyself, for those 
who minister, for those who worship, and for those 
you love!” 

The walls inside are of a greenish-yellow with three 
magnificent stained-glass windows adding rich color 
and each of these separated from the next by an 
equally fine large mosaic of Biblical scenes. Beyond, 
opens the great central dome of the church and beyond 
that the altar, a mass of color, the whole reminding us 
greatly of the Greek churches visited on our Balkan 
Journey. 

From the church we continue up the arcade, past 
more of the ornate square buildings in which are the 
class rooms of different departments. To the rear of 
these other courts open with more buildings, so that 
there is what seems an endless compound. Looking 
in through the windows we see the chairs with one 
arm flattened into a desk, that are used throughout. 
One of us has a friend at Stanford, and we now proceed 
to look him up, here among the class rooms. 

In his company, then, we ramble over the grounds. 
We have been fortunate in that our Little Journey 
has brought us here on the last day of February, 


184 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


which is the anniversary of Mrs. Stanford's death, 
when memorial exercises are held. So we see the 
Stanford tomb, in one corner of the campus, opened. 
Here members of the family are placing flowers. 
Meantime we learn of the inner workings of Stanford. 
It is desired to keep the number of students down 
to two thousand, and of these, according to the charter, 
not over five hundred can be girls. So the entrance 
requirements are very strict. The faculty consists of 
about a hundred members. 

By this time we have reached the University Tavern, 
where, as in Memorial Hall at Harvard, we dine with 
the students. The meal costs us fifty cents, but the 
students pay only a quarter for theirs. The tables are 
simple; boys and girls sit round them with here and 
there a professor. 

We are led into the dormitory of the students, or 
“The Hall," as it is called, a building of long halls 
on which open the rooms, decorated by the inmates 
with all manner of curious things,—fish nets and 
the like,—some of which even hang on the transoms. 
Peeping into these rooms, we see Indian rugs, posters, 
couches and ornaments. Then we hear of the customs 
of Stanford, how all the juniors wear a high hat and 
rough brown corduroy trousers, and on the first oc¬ 
casion of their donning these, the seniors rush in and 
try to crush the hats. The freshmen wear no distinc¬ 
tive hat, but the sophomores appear in soft red ones, 
the juniors in green, and the seniors in great sombreros. 

Of course we visit the museum, where are gathered 
the innumerable treasures brought by various mem¬ 
bers of the Stanford family from all parts of the world. 



ST. DOMINIC’S CHURCH. SAN FRANCISCO, AFTER THE 
EARTHQUAKE OF 190G 










186 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


There is an especially fine collection of ancient Egyp¬ 
tian relics, and of Venetian glass, besides some very in¬ 
teresting mementoes of old mission days in California. 

As we wish to attend the memorial service in the 
church, we cannot stay as long as we would, so leave at 
a quarter to four, early enough to give us a chance to 
see the Stanford students en masse and meet some 
of the more distinguished members of the faculty. 
The chiming of the bells throughout the service is 
particularly impressive. From the church, after it is 
over, the students file to the tomb and there, hats off, 
in the sun-down sing the plaintive “Hail, Stanford, 
Hail.” 

Before we have half finished hearing of the joys and 
sorrows of Stanford college life, evening comes on 
and we must return to Palo Alto, which is our start¬ 
ing-point for San Francisco. 

THE VANISHED CITY 

The ride from Palo Alto is but a short one and before 
long we are in San Francisco, the vanished city 
of the Pacific. 

What we now see and what we should have seen had 
we come before the disastrous latter part of April, 
1906, are strangely different. Now there is ruin 
everywhere. Whole streets are obliterated. Build¬ 
ing booms are active, reconstruction gangs are every¬ 
where, there are skeletons of skyscrapers and cellar 
holes and foundations. Railway switches go up 
thoroughfares where only carriages drove before. In 
fact, it is chaos being reduced to order, building and 
rebuilding that we see. 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


187 


How sadly different from what might have been! 
We should have stopped at the Palace Hotel, one of 
the banner hotels of the world. In the rotunda, with 
its series of five great balconies, we should have dined 
each night, and then stepping into the sitting-room, 
in this same rotunda, have listened while the band 
discoursed sweet music. 



ONE OF SAN FRANCISCO’S LONG HILLY STREETS 


The first day would probably have been occupied 
with our mail which had accumulated here, and the 
jingle of street cars and the hum of traffic would have 
sounded strange to us after days in the quieter towns. 

As it is, we take a walk along Market Street, the 
Broadway of the Pacific. We see, as of yore, the 
crowds gathered before the newspaper bulletins, but 








188 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


instead of reading of famous prize-fights they are read¬ 
ing the lists of “jobs.” We patronize one of the veg¬ 
etarian cafes for our breakfast, where a regulation 
twenty-cent meal is served,—stewed fruit, mush and 
milk, two eggs, bread, butter and coffee. In the candy 
stores there are specialties of California candied fruits 
in boxes, with pictures of the missions burnt into 
their covers. 

Cars jangle by in long trains, and we note how 
cosmopolitan are the crowds. In the stores we observe 
constantly local customs. All fowl save chicken, for 
instance, are suspended by the feet with the heads 
wrapped in brown paper. Japanese stores are nu¬ 
merous, and in all of these the three apes, signifying 
“hear no evil, speak no evil, think no evil,” are sold. 
We are attracted by some very beautiful ivories here. 
Off on a side street is the handsome square white stone 
Post Office, and on the right we see the ruins of the 
Hall of Records, just behind the City Hall, whose 
famous dome appears so often in the school geographies. 

Violets are hawked along the walks and there are 
many buyers. In the drygoods stores there are post 
office sub-stations. Phonographs accompany the bio¬ 
graphs in the penny parlors. In the novelty shops 
there are dressed fleas for sale. And in other shops 
there are the endless souvenir postals. 

In the olden time we would now have boarded a 
“Seeing Frisco” electric car for a tour of the city. 

SEEING SAN FRANCISCO 

Today being the first of March, the day is cool, and 
a large proportion of the men on the streets wear 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


189 



TYPICAL HOUSES OF OLD SAN FRANCISCO 

light overcoats. We hear from the guide how in 1840 
the population of San Francisco (here they never say 
“Frisco,” but always give the full name, San Fran¬ 
cisco), was three hundred and how just before the 
earthquake it was four hundred and eighty-five thou¬ 
sand. The first part of the city stood in the western 
section, which was known as the “sweet smelling 
earth.” The waters of the bay then extended to Mar¬ 
ket Street, and much of the busiest section, down 
to the Ferry Building—two-thirds of a mile—has since 
been filled in, serving to show the growth in sixty years. 

Now we stroll past the sites of the Palace and Grand 
hotels, the latter practically an annex of the former, 
the two having cost six million dollars, and accom- 









190 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


modating nine hundred guests. We see the ruins of 
the Masonic Temple, where nineteen lodges met, and 
from which thirty-two thousand members were gov¬ 
erned. From Newspaper Row we pass into the old 
retail district and then past what was the Pacific 
Union Club, the richest in the city. Up here is Union 
Square, with the Dewey Monument among the palms. 
Apartment houses used to stand on every side, but we 
are seeing the present and not the past. We note 
the queer names of the shop-owners in the little shops 
that replace the great ones, and we recall the eighteen- 
story Spreckles Building, the greatest in the city, 
that once was here. 

The section of poorer homes with the imitation 
brown-stone fronts—for San Francisco was built of 
frame houses—is gone, and the Alhambra Theater, 
in its quaint old style, is altered sadly. Most of the 
houses of old San Francisco were three stories high 
or more, of wood painted white so as to imitate stone. 
Every window was a bay, and steps led up from the 
walk to the high first floor. Now only those whose 
fortune lay in securities can afford to rebuild such 
houses. 

Van Ness Boulevard, the fashionable street, a 
hundred and twenty-five feet in width, extending 
from Market to the Beach, and on which no heavy 
teams or street cars were allowed, was the great resi¬ 
dence section. It was in the heart of the holocaust 
and its aristocratic grandeur is gone. Children still 
play in the terraced park at Jefferson Square, for there 
are no “keep off the grass” signs here; but the hand¬ 
some homes are gone. 



OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 191 

The famous Western Addition is still more greatly 
altered. We pass the handsome bakery where all the 
city bread was made and think of the hunger and 
suffering that the refugees endured; then the Holy 
Cross Cathedral, where prayers were offered for the 
saving of the city from destruction, and come to the 
section where the old Spanish settlers had their look¬ 
outs. There was once a series of stores in the base¬ 
ment of the cheaper homes, but little is left to recall 
it, save that one can still look down across the city 
to the bay. On our right, the black-domed Synagogue 
that once recalled Palestine has a different aspect 
now. The slope of the hill is very steep here and the 
street ascends in three great billows to the top. The 


RUINS IN SAN FRANCISCO AFTER EARTHQUAKE OF 1906 




192 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


city streets are more confusing than ever, since the 
landmarks are gone. San Francisco was always con¬ 
fusing in its streets; north of Market they run at 
right angles, south of Market they run according to 
the lay of the land, while Market Street itself extends 
southwest from the ferry building. None of the 
streets of the business section, moreover, cross Market, 
which is a hundred and twenty feet wide. 

By and by we are in the section of the cemeteries 
—Calvary the first, east of Lone Mountain. Four 
graveyards in all surround this mount, and Laurel 
Hill, where several of the forty-niners lie, is the next 
of these to come in sight. On the mountain-top there 
is a great white cross to recall the Spanish mission¬ 
aries. This is a landmark seen from all over the city. 
Old San Francisco’s Children’s Hospital stood out here 
and here twenty-five thousand volunteers of the Span¬ 
ish War had their Camp Merritt, though at the time 
of the earthquake the entire section had been built up. 

Here, too, in the upper part of town—once full of 
beautiful places—is the south boundary of the Pre¬ 
sidio (Pre-sid'e-oh), Uncle Sam’s greatest military 
reserve. It contains fifteen thousand acres. Near by 
stood a five-hundred-thousand-dollar home for the 
aged conducted by the Little Sisters of the Poor. 
Gradually we come to where the homes were more 
scattered and so the havoc was less. 

THE REAL GOLDEN GATE 

We have been going toward the Golden Gate and if 
we had gone by car we should have been told how the 
Gate is really three miles long, connecting the Pacific 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 193 

with the Bay of San Francisco. It is five miles wide 
in places, though just a mile at the inner entry. The 
points are strongly fortified and as the channel is 
from twenty-two to sixty-three fathoms deep and 
the tide rises eight feet, ships can come through easily. 
On the opposite side of the bay we see the hills of 
Marine (Ma-reen) City and distant Mt. Tamalpais 
(Tam-al-pie-iss), up which we shall go on the crooked- 
est railway in the world, two hundred and eighty-one 
curves in an eight-mile ride and a grade of seven per 
cent in places. 

San Francisco Bay, we learn furthermore, runs 
inland for sixty miles, having a shore line of about 
one thousand miles, making it the greatest land¬ 
locked harbor in the world. All the navies of the 
earth could be harbored here. The Gate was named 
by Fremont in 1858, for the fertile country all about 
and not as a gate of gold, as some might suppose. 

We pass the old Italian cemetery hidden by spruce 
hedges, and then the great vacant space held for a 
military reserve, to where on the right the Golden 
Gate extends. We see the two forts on the points a 
mile apart, then the green land-locked harbor, and 
one great sail coming in. Opposite is Alcatraz (Al- 
ka-trass) the military prison island and then again 
we note a light-house in the water, another sail and a 
skiff. We are high up over the Gate here and as we 
look at the scene with an eye to its beauty only we 
also recall the sad wreck of the Rio Janeiro, a few 
years ago. She went down close by with a hundred 
and eighty passengers aboard. Ahead, where some 
men are fishing on the rocks, is the great open Pacific, 


194 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


And there, just sailing toward Cathay, a great four- 
master passes out to sea. 

High above the water we go to its very edge, just 
opposite a point which juts out very much as does 
Gibraltar. Then the entire Golden Gate comes into 
view, and ahead the Cliff House and the famous Sutro 
(Soo'tro) Baths and the Seal Rocks with the seals 
basking, small and yellow, on the boulders, are in 
sight. The Cliff House we find to be a grey structure 
resembling some of the old Scandinavian legendary 
castles, and is set in a colony of amusement resorts. 

Golden Gate Park, with the Dutch windmill and 
the beach and the sand dunes (which covered the 
entire site of the park only twenty-five years ago), 
also unfolds to our view. 

Following the car line now, we strike back again 
toward the heart of San Francisco. 

QUEER CORNERS OF THE CITY AT THE GATE 

We go through what was formerly the densely popu¬ 
lated Richmond district, composed of frame houses 
all of which had been put up in the past six years. In 
1900 San Francisco had a population of 342,000, in 
1906 it was 485,000. That shows how it was growing 
until the earthquake checked its growth. Across the 
bay, moreover, one hundred and fifty thousand persons 
lived and of these thirty thousand crossed the ferry 
daily. 

We constantly come upon landmarks in Golden 
Gate Park, such as Strawberry Hill, the Observatory, 
and Prayer Book Cross (erected to the memory of the 
first English prayer service in America, held by Drake 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


195 


in 1579). On the right used to be Chutes Park, with 
its chutes and zoo, to which two thousand visitors 
came each month. Now we are at what was Presidio 
Terrace, named for the Presidio, a military reservation 
founded by the Spaniards in 1776, and occupied by 
Uncle Sam in the fifties. On the Terrace the homes 
were valued at upward of ten thousand dollars each. 

Then we can see where, in the Crematory, all the 
great city’s dead were incinerated, that being the only 
way of burial allowed at the time of the earthquake. 
One had to leave the city to die, or be cremated, 
and as it cost only twenty-five dollars to be burnt, 
while the cost of burial in Oakland was thirty, it was 
cheaper to stay here. 

We are interested in the climate, which has been 
largely responsible for the rapid growth of San Fran¬ 
cisco. The average temperature here is 56°, so that 
people can wear the same weight of clothing the year 
round. Generally, wraps are carried, and the overcoat 
is more in evidence in July than in January. In this 
part of California there are two seasons, the rainy and 
the dry; the rainy season begins in November and 
extends well on into March or April, although there 
are occasional showers even in June, when the actual 
dry season begins. In 1905 there were just one 
hundred and ninety-five dry days. Many times in 
the so-called wet season the city goes two or three 
weeks without rain, and has sun all the time. As 
for snow, the last time that it was seen was on March 
3, 1896, and then there was little of it. 

But we are coming to other sites that were famous 
before the earthquake. Knob Hill, where the ultra- 


196 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


fashionable had their homes and where the great 
two-and-a-half-million-dollar Fairmont Hotel stood, 
and then follows a district of frame houses that marks 
the beginning of the Chinatown region. San Fran¬ 
cisco’s Chinatown consisted of twelve blocks only; 
these were not far from the business district. Not 
less than twenty thousand Chinese and two or three 
thousand members of other races inhabited this sec¬ 
tion. With Chinatown thoroughly gutted by fire, most 
of the Chinese have swarmed into the Los Angeles 
Chinatown, and where they have rebuilt in San Fran¬ 
cisco many of the picturesque phases of the place are 
gone. We still see the Chinese coolie, however, 
selling vegetables from two great wicker baskets at the 
end of a shoulder pole, or from flat trays, as of yore. 

We pass the end of Golden Gate Park, with the 
McKinley Memorial Monument, and we learn that the 
trees here are always green. Inhabitants speak en¬ 
thusiastically of the wonders and pleasures of the 
park, where there is a concert every Sunday; we look 
with admiration at the great old blue gum trees and 
pines. Formerly the residences, three stories high, 
with steps leading from the walk to the second floor, 
were dense here, and we wonder that there were not 
more fires, but this, it is explained to us, was owing 
to the fact that most of these houses were built of 
redwood, which does not burn easily (in fact, not at 
all, if damp), as it is not resinous. Furthermore, 
few of the houses have other heating apparatus than 
gas, so that defective flues are unknown. 

Close by, there lived before the earthquake one 
Thomas Lundy, a jeweler, who had sixteen living 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 197 

children and five dead ones. Now we have another 
bird’s-eye view of the park—the second greatest park 
in the country, being exceeded in area only by Fair- 
mount Park in Philadelphia, and in Europe only by 
the Bois du Boulogne. In fact, it extends three and 
a half miles in one direction and a mile in the other, 
embracing seventeen hundred acres in all. Thirty- 
five years ago this place was a barren waste. Seven 
per cent of the city’s taxes were devoted to its main¬ 
tenance, and already over thirty millions have been 
spent on it. 

Going on through the maze of streets, we cannot 
help thinking of the great amount of paint that must 
be consumed in this city of frame houses, and we are 
also struck with the magnitude of its transportation 
facilities. There were two hundred and sixty-four 
miles of street railways in old Frisco, all electric except 
eighty-one miles of cable. The first cable road in 
the world was built here, opened in 1873. Owing 
to the transfer system, it was possible to reach any 
point in the city for a five-cent fare. 

San Francisco was sometimes called the “City of 
One Hundred Hills,” and the steepest grade of these 
is Fillmore Hill, something like twenty-five per cent. 
The electric car now ascends by attaching a cable, 
so that the the down car partly pulls the other up. 

These very steep and also very long streets interest 
us as we pass the old mission cemetery, as does the 
site of old Mission Dolores (Doe-lo'res), to which 
communicants have come since 1776 at the call of 
the ancient bells. A modern church and parsonage 
have had to be added to the church latterly. 


198 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


This, is the Mission District, the second Spanish 
settlement on the Peninsula, and is occupied largely 
by the working classes, who had theaters and banks 
of their own. Mission Street was, next to Market, the 
most important in the city. 

Next we take a turn into the manufacturing dis¬ 
trict, where there are railways and cooperage plants, 
wine houses and vinegar works, and what not. We 
cross the section of “made” land, once (like part of 
Boston) part of the bay, and come to where we can 
overlook the heart of the city. St. Ignatius Church, 
the finest in San Francisco, and the Mechanics Pavilion, 
which covered a great block and held twelve thousand 
people, had their sites in this vicinity. 

Finally we return to the site of the City Hall, which 
covered some four acres and had cost not less than 
six million dollars. We go on toward another point 
of the compass, past the site of Mrs. Johnson’s home; 
she it was who left thirty thousand dollars for the care 
of her pet cats, and when the other heirs contested 
the will, the cats won. Levi Strauss, the famous over¬ 
all-maker and founder of scholarships, had his resi¬ 
dence not far off. 

Once, we should have dined at the Palace of Arts, 
famous for the pictures which covered every inch of 
its walls, and proceeded with our sight-seeing in another 
direction. Now ruin is everywhere. The great wineries; 
the fire-house where the greatest fire-tower in the 
world was kept; the wharves of the Pacific Mail steam¬ 
ers, from which passengers sail to Hawaii and the 
Orient; the depots and the terminals, and the yards 
to which all the brick that is employed in San Fran- 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


199 


cisco is shipped,—these are right in the path of desola¬ 
tion. The cars still ascend the hundred hills by the 
queer brake devices, and the wires of forty thousand 
telephones dangle and hang loose. Out in the bay 
we see Goat Island, and the training-ship at anchor. 
The first ship came in here in 1775, from Mexico, ac¬ 
cording to our guide. Now we pass the mighty iron 



AT THE CHINESE PUBLIC SCHOOL, SAN FRANCISCO 


works where the Oregon and other noted vessels were 
built, and we see the docks where the California 
and the South Dakota are under construction. The 
Olympia and the Ohio and the Monterey all came 
from this place. We pass the site of the first railroad 
on the Pacific coast, built in 1850, and then the ruins 








200 


A LITTLE JOURNEY TO 


of South San Francisco, or what was known as 
“Butcher-town,” owing to its slaughter houses. 
Here there are also sugar refineries. 

A Chinaman passes, and we learn that the Chinese 
came here in 1849, really to find gold, but failing at 
this they went into the fishing business, and so this 
section is known as the China basin. 

But we are getting deeper and deeper into the 
ruined section, and look now only on blackened fallen 
walls or at the indications of new structures. Down 
here the Mint rises undisturbed. The structure, which 
was established in 1854, has coined more gold than 
all the other mints of the country together. This, 
and the Post Office, a three-million-dollar structure, 
survive. 

What we shall have most cause to regret is the passing 
of Chinatown. To pass between narrow, unplastered 
walls so close together that there is hardly room for 
us, up into the joss-house—a “joss” being a family 
of Chinese coming from the same place—and there 
see the great idol, to smell the incense and see the 
gay altars before which tinfoil money is burnt to 
deceive the god, and then to step out on the balcony 
in the front of the main court, is an experience that 
is now unfortunately impossible. Varnished are the 
mural decorations depicting earth and sea and sky, all 
painted and carved and gilded, below them altars show¬ 
ing China divided into four parts, before which the 
Chinamen bowed their heads three times on the mat¬ 
ting while gongs were beaten thrice to attract the 
god’s attention. Here in the joss-house all manner 
of curious customs were observable. Rice and grain 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 201 

were placed before the joss, that the spirit might eat 
their spiritual essence. Another custom was to clap 
two sticks together and then throw them on the ground; 
if both fell right side up, it meant good luck; if both 
fell face down bad luck was foretold, and if one fell 
each way the fortune would be fairly good. 

The joss-keeper had also a book of fortunes,—num¬ 
bers on the ends of little sticks, which would be 
shaken from a bag until one stick protruded farther 
than the rest, when you could look up the number it 
bore in the fortune book and see your fate. 

The Chinese theater and the Chinese telephone ex¬ 
change, the opium dens, the vile lodging-houses, and 
subterranean tenements, were all formerly among the 
city sights. Now, however, these are gone, and the 
intention is that they shall not be rebuilt. 

By and by, we ride out again to the Cliff House, to 
sit there up above the Seal Rocks, and ponder on the 
vanished city. In fact, again and again, we lament 
the sights of which the earthquake has robbed us. 

From there we go to the park and to visit the public 
museum, which is exceptionally rich in souvenirs of 
early New England’life and Indian relics. We next 
take in the sunken gardens and by and by the Japanese 
tea garden, where, among diminutive trees and pools 
and bridges, kimono girls flit, selling tea in the fashion 
that it is served in Japan. The zoo portions of 
the park, with their herds of buffalo and deer, and 
notably the great aviary, where whole trees are en¬ 
closed by netting and in which hundreds of birds 
sing as in their native state, prove most instructive 
and entertaining. 


202 


OUR WESTERN WONDERLAND 


What we can see in San Francisco, however, is but 
a fraction of what we had planned. The only Chinese 
public school in America; the Chinese telephone ex¬ 
change, where the numbers are remembered and not 
written on the buttons; the many queer buildings 
about the city,—these are all gone. 

THE CROOKEDEST RAILWAY IN THE WORLD 

In fact, there seems no longer to be any San Fran¬ 
cisco, as we understood the name. We have come 
to the end of things, and our Little Journey must 
be brought to a close. In a subsequent trip we will 
continue onward through the California wonderland 
to Yosemite and Lake Tahoe, and up Mt. Shasta, 
through the petrified forest and to the geysers, and 
visit a hundred and one other queer corners. That 
trip, however, is as long, if not longer, than this, and 
must be reserved for another time. 



INN 2353 >i 



























' 


























* 














* 
























































































